


Blood

by lacemonster



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Bloodplay, Character Death, Child Murder, Domestic Violence, Explicit Sexual Content, Forced Drug Use, Frottage, Hallucinations, Implied/Referenced Dubious Consent, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Inappropriate Humor, Intercrural Sex, M/M, Mental Instability, Murder, Non-Consensual Kissing, Past Child Abuse, Rough Kissing, Taboo, Talon - Freeform, Torture, Unhealthy Relationships, Violence, talon au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-10
Updated: 2017-03-30
Packaged: 2018-09-23 07:27:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 5
Words: 52,109
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9646289
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lacemonster/pseuds/lacemonster
Summary: Talon AU. Complete.After his parents were murdered, Dick was recruited into The Court of Owls, giving his loyalty in exchange for revenge. Sent on a task to kill Batman and his son, Dick learns that his path could have gone another way--that he was meant to be adopted by Bruce Wayne. With his trials coming up, Dick is on his final path to becoming a Talon, and must hurry to find the truth behind his origins and his heritage before giving his life to the Owls completely. His struggle is similarly faced by Damian, who gave up the assassin lifestyle but struggles to redeem himself for his old ways.





	1. Black

**Author's Note:**

> I was debating whether or not to post this. I originally intended this as a one-shot. But the length is decently long, and also I felt the formatting just might work best if it was split into parts... and so, I'm splitting it into parts.
> 
> This story is... nearly finished, but not quite yet finished. I'm hoping to release each part (likely about 3 chapters with an epilogue, or perhaps just 3 parts total) each week--but I can make no promises. As such, please be aware that the TAGS ARE NOT FINAL and subject to change. I will give warnings in the author's note before each chapter, notifying if I have changed/added tags, but be sure to check the tags with every update to be safe. I will work my absolute hardest to make sure everything is tagged correctly, but that being said, I cannot predict exactly how the story will turn as it is not finished yet. If you are worried about content, I HIGHLY suggest that you hold off on reading the story until it is finished, to avoid feeling 'tricked' by the tags changing. With that being said, any upset comments that did not adhere to these warnings or my tags will be ignored and possibly deleted.
> 
> Damian is aged-up in this story but he's still sort of underage? His age is never specified but I added the underage tag just to be safe. I sort of imagined him as mid-to-late teens, which may be legal depending on where you are in the world. Dick is mentioned to be about twenty-five.
> 
> There are severe content warnings for this story. Dick is trained as an assassin very young, with referenced child (physical) abuse. There is also murder, including the murder of a child, in this story. I added the dubcon tag since Damian might be underage, and I also added it due to a past reference of Dick/Unnamed Owls, which is dubcon due to power dynamics. There are several references to suicide (almost akin to seppuku?) in this story, including an inappropriate joke concerning it. Also, this is a DickDami story, but Dick and Damian are also enemies, so I added the unhealthy relationship/domestic violence tags (the latter might not be the correct term but I was not sure how else to tag it).
> 
> This story starts off on a flashback. I will have time changes/flashbacks separated by horizontal lines. Regular page/paragraph breaks will be scene transitions.
> 
> I've been working on this story for awhile so I'm excited to finally share it with you all! I hope to have this all finished very soon so I can give you regular updates. Thank you! I hope you enjoy.
> 
> Edit: Someone did fanart for this story! Please check it out [here!](https://twitter.com/gothamtwinks/status/890230591974670336)

The moon was full that night.

Dick watched it hang in the sky, large and white. Its light glared through the windows, illuminating the space. Dick’s attention was torn away by shallow, haggard breaths.

“Please,” the voice gasped.

Dick’s gaze travelled around the room. His eyes had long adjusted to the darkness. On the shelf were photographs. Some were portraits but others were more personal than that, weaving stories of weddings, fourth of July celebrations, birthdays, trips to Italy...

“Richard.”

Dick turned in the direction from whence his name was spoken. He stared into the face of an owl—the eyes reflected his image back at him, lenses rimmed in gold. He wondered, briefly, if that small boy in the reflection was truly him. He tore his gaze away from the eyes and to the rest of the body, which was dressed in black and decorated in steel daggers and knives. A clawed hand was held out, gesturing Dick closer.

Thick apprehension swelled in Dick’s chest. His breath tightened, his eyes beginning to burn, his stomach nauseous. But he obeyed dutifully, kneeling beside his mentor. Though terrified, he swallowed and looked down.

The girl seemed no older than him. Her body had been weakened by the tranquilizer that she had to be injected with for trying to escape. Still, she remained on the tip of consciousness while her body slowly slipped into paralysis. Her small hand twitched, struggling to move across the carpet. Reaching.

Dick felt something prod his hand. Dick glanced down, taking the dagger. He looked at it, the steel gleaming silver in the moonlit illuminescence. His heart was beating faster. He wrapped his hand around the hilt, thumb covering the owl etching. But when he looked back down and saw her face, his already fragile certainty crumbled.

He looked back up at the Talon, desperately. His expression alone must have conveyed his worry because the assassin quickly spoke.

“You’re almost finished.”

Dick knew that. Still, he shook his head. “She didn’t do anything wrong.”

“You have to end the bloodline. That’s the deal. The Court has ordered it.”

Talon looked down. He brushed the girl’s hair away, revealing her neck. He traced a finger along the throat, indicating where to strike. Dick took in a deep breath. His stomach was still turning. His body was still shaking. But when he tightened his grip on the hilt, he felt a small semblance of control return to him. Talon held her head against the ground, stilling her body. Dick positioned the blade.

“Dad,” she whispered, staring.

“Say the words,” Talon instructed. Dick swallowed.

“Sonia Zucco. The Court of Owls has sentenced you to die.”

The blade sunk in, blood splattering up. There was a moment of struggle—the body fighting the paralysis like a straightjacket, fighting to live. There was a gurgle deep in her throat as the blood puddled up—staining red on the blade, splattering on his gloves, fountaining onto the floor. Her eyes widened in fear, but there was something lost in her gaze as well.

Dick watched, teeth gritting, wondering how much longer it was going to last. He suddenly felt a hand over his. He let out the breath he didn’t realizing he had been holding in. The Talon guided his hand, sliding the knife. A sudden release of blood puddled out, washing over her neck down onto the ground.

Dick watched as the body began to slow down, began to relax. He watched her eyes begin to fade and dull until all the pain, all the fear, seeped away. The blood trailed along the ground, the red spreading past her outstretched hand.

Dick’s eyes followed the reach of blood, watching it trail along her arm like an extension of her hand. His eyes looked across the floor, where her parents laid in their own pools of blood. Sonia’s blood kept spreading, inching closer and closer, but stopped before it could join her parents’.

Reaching but untouching.

* * *

 

Dick clenched his jaw, fighting back a noise as the cut of a knife stung him. He quickly moved out of the way, ducking out of the path as more knives flew at him. He rolled across the ground, sweeping up his own fallen dagger off of the floor.

He turned to strike but it was too late. He was halted by the blade pressing against his throat—not enough to draw blood, but cold and sharp nonetheless. Dick was afraid to speak, afraid that even a single inhale would allow the blade to cut into his skin.

“Best two out of three?” he finally said when the blade withdrew. He dared to look up. Talon’s face was concealed by the full face mask but Dick knew how to read him well enough. He could sense the disappointment.

Still, Talon sheathed the dagger back on his harness. He held out his hand which Dick took, helping him back to his feet.

Dick glanced up at the sky. A cloud passed in front of the moon, drifting in the dark. He didn’t stay distracted for long—he turned, finding Talon balancing on the edge of the roof. Standing like that, he almost looked like an owl—perched above, head turning to survey his surroundings, the night sky above him.

Almost.

Dick joined him by his side. Just down the hill, a little further beyond, was uptown Gotham, where the rich and the elite played. Dick was expecting Talon’s usual crazed rant about Gotham’s upper class. Instead, in a quiet voice, he said, “You’re going to have to do better than that.”

Dick shook his head a little. They had carried this same conversation for almost fifteen years now. “I don’t exactly have electrum running through my blood—and you have almost a hundred years of experience on me.”

Talon’s head immediately turned towards him. He spoke in a sharp voice, “You’ll be facing your trials soon. It’s more pressing than ever that you be ready.”

“I am ready. This is what you’ve been training me for, after all,” Dick said carelessly, adjusting his gloves. His thumb traced over the small owl mark print on the fabric. “The trials won’t be an issue. You taught me how to fight—so the first trial shouldn’t be too difficult. You taught me how to kill, so the third should be just as easy. The only thing you haven’t prepared me for is the second, the labyrinth.”

“Nothing can prepare you for the labyrinth,” Talon said quietly. “And that’s not the issue. You still need to be able to surpass me, otherwise the court will never accept you. That was the deal. When we face each other after the trials, I won’t be able to hold back. If you fail, you’ll die by my blade.”

Dick just smirked and said, “I perform better under pressure.”

The Talon shook his head, unamused. “I’m starting to think the Owls were right—I _did_ spoil you.”

 

Dick watched carefully as the car drove down the road. He glanced over at Talon, who slowly nodded. The acknowledgement was all that Dick needed.

He leapt down, sensing Talon close behind him, landing on top of the van. The car swerved, alerted, but Talon had already hopped onto the hood, breaking through the glass. Dick held on as the vehicle slammed on the breaks.

He heard the sounds of a struggle. When the car door clicked open, Dick was prepared, leaping onto their target and knocking him down. The man was strong, as Talon had warned him that he would be. As Dick tried to place him in a pressure hold, an elbow swung back, hitting him in the gut. Dick flinched for a second and that was precisely the opening that the man needed, quickly escaping Dick’s grip, but he didn’t make it further than two steps when Talon stepped in, grabbing him and poising a needle to his skin.

“Calvin Rose. The Court of Owls has ordered for your capture.”

The man rolled his eyes. Dick watched him carefully as Talon moved to cuff him. The handcuffs were intense looking—Dick had never seen technology like it.

“God, I should have known they’d send _you_ ,” Calvin rambled as his hands were placed inside the restraints. As Talon did his work, Calvin’s eyes travelled to Dick. Dick found his gaze to be a bit intense.  “This one though. This one is a little more curious. Actually has some color to him—not all pale and veiny. Since when did disciples get to go on the big bird missions?”

“Richard. Come help me with this,” Talon said, not acknowledging Calvin’s words. Dick stepped forward and helped Talon complete the cuffs.

Once they were locked tight, Dick stepped back. He noticed the look on Calvin’s face.

“Richard,” Calvin repeated, a slow realization falling across his face. “I see. So the Gray Son of Gotham is finally in the grasp of the Owls. The rumors are true. Now it all makes sense why you’re out in the field.” He stopped and looked at Talon, a sly smile on his face. “With you as his mentor, no less. That’s surprising sentimental of you. There must be a heart still beating in there somewhere, deep in the electrum.”

“You’re not escaping this one, Calvin,” Talon said, looking at him. “Especially not with words.”

Talon yanked him forward, dragging him to the van. Dick followed, opening up the back door for them. The back of Calvin’s van was fitted with a bunch of living essentials, like food and a flimsy mattress, but there were other items. Expensive looking pieces of technology that Dick didn’t recognize. A few were weapons. The majority of them seemed to be intricate tools, for grappling onto buildings and breaking into safes. Or something else. Talon tossed Calvin inside and Dick climbed in after, shutting the doors behind him. Talon took over the driver’s seat while Dick sat with his back against the side of the van, opposite of Calvin. The car began to move.

“You likely don’t remember me,” Calvin said, looking at Dick. Dick didn’t. He simply stared at Calvin, expressionless. “When I was at _Haly’s_ , you were just a toddler, and I was just the boy with the escape act. But I knew your parents, everyone did. Your mother used to sing to you. Do you remember that?”

Dick did. But he remained unfazed by Calvin’s words, staying still and silent because he knew it was expected of him. But he did not shut Calvin up, because part of him was genuinely curious. There was something about him that Dick liked, maybe it was the fact that he had the most personality of all the people Dick had dealt with on his missions. Calvin had this fair look to him, and there was something almost romantic about his rugged appearance and the way his hair fell in his eyes, reminding Dick of those swashbuckling hero types that he read about as a child.

Although there was something deeper in his eyes, something unhinged. Like a man who had slept with his eyes open for one too many nights. Calvin kept talking.

“And your father used to joke around all of the time. More than talent, he had the personality to sell the crowd. Could have been a Talon, instead of you, but apparently he was in Europe when it was time to recruit him. Didn’t save him from tragedy in the end though, I suppose.”

Dick had heard enough. “You’ll never escape. The Owls never die. They’ll keep chasing you.”

“It’s not about escaping, Dick,” Calvin said, suddenly grinning. Dick finally blinked. “It’s about staying free as long as possible.”

Calvin’s arms suddenly came out from behind his back, free of the cuffs. Dick didn’t have time to stop and wonder _how_ , he immediately sprang forward instead. Calvin swung a punch, which he dodged. But when he successfully wrapped his arm around Calvin’s neck, Calvin just backed up, slamming him into the wall. Dick had to let go. But the van was alerted by the noise, swerving. Calvin stumbled and Dick immediately grabbed his dagger—he couldn’t kill him, even if his orders allowed him to, but he had to do something to stop him.

He stabbed Calvin, yanking out the knife as quickly as it went in. Calvin cried out, but it wasn't one of pain. He couldn't feel pain, not really. The edge of his voice was more akin to a growl, angry and ready to fight. Dark blood, almost black, splattered everywhere. Suddenly Calvin laughed, singing under his breath as they exchanged blows, “ _When the red, red robin comes bob, bob, bobbin’ along_ —”

Dick knew the words. He ignored them. He swung his dagger again but this time, Calvin caught him by the wrist, twisting him into a hold. But instead of keeping him still, he tossed him forward. Dick stumbled forward, nearly crashing into the equipment hung up on the side of the van, but managed to turn around.

“I’m never going to stop running, Dick,” Calvin said. Dick looked up, just in time to watch Calvin open the doors. There seemed to be a whirlwind as those doors burst open, tools sliding across the floor and flinging out onto the street, Calvin’s hair pulled back by the wind. Dick struggled to maintain his balance. Calvin looked back at him one final time. “I hope you don’t either.”

He jumped out of the van. Dick didn’t hesitate. He ran, chasing after him, jumping out of the van and rolling safely onto the street. He caught a glimpse of Calvin and chased after him, ran and ran, gaining ground, but then Calvin climbed over a railing and jumped—right into Gotham River.

Dick stopped at the edge of the railing, watching Calvin dive into the waters. Dick caught Talon in his peripherals, who made it in time to watch as Calvin sunk into the water.

“I’m sorry—”Dick started but Talon shook his head.

“Don’t be. He’ll survive. We’ll have other chances. He’s been running for years—the Court is more than aware of how slippery he is. I should have stopped when I first heard the fighting but I thought it would only make it easier for him to escape—I didn’t think he’d actually jump.”

They headed back towards the van, cleaning up the street along the way so Talon could look through the items. He bagged up the ones he found important. They each carried a bag, walking down the bridge back towards the city. Dick couldn’t help but slow to a stop, staring out at the river—the view was gorgeous at night.

“My father died on this bridge.”

Dick froze in place. He finally glanced over his shoulder at Talon, who was looking out over the Bay. Talon never spoke of himself, much less of his life before his time as a Talon. Dick listened carefully, letting Talon speak.

“He was building it. There was an accident and he fell and died. My mother had to raise me herself. We lived in poverty so I took to the streets, juggling for money.” Talon was quiet for a moment. He looked over at Dick, who stared back into the mask. “Blood is everything, Richard.”

Dick knew what he was talking of. He nodded slowly. “I don’t regret joining. I don’t regret avenging my parents.”

Talon kept looking at him, his shoulders tense. There was more that he wanted to say. There was something Dick still didn’t understand. Dick looked at him curiously.

“I waited a long time for you, Gray Son. There were times where I wonder if I made the right choice in taking you in. If I made the right choice in offering you a place among the Owls. I wonder if there might have been a better life for you if I had simply let you go.”

“What does it mean?” Dick asked. “ _The Gray Son of Gotham_. I understand it as being connected to my family name—”

Talon suddenly shook his head. “The name Gray Son was given to your bloodline, as a son of Gotham who walks neither in black nor white but gray. It was a name given to you, your father, and your father’s father. But it is not your family name.”

Dick’s brow furrowed in confusion. Talon’s response only raised more questions than they answered.

“Then what is my family name?”

Talon was quiet. He turned his head, he seemed to have spoken too much. “We should go.”

Dick’s mind was burning with questions—but he knew better than to ask. It was not the way he was trained. So he said, obediently, “Yes, Talon.”

 

Dick didn’t understand why he had been dragged out of his bed at dusk. Out the window, he could see the hint of the sun and picked up the blueness of the sky. It was a sight he hadn’t seen in a long time.

The Owls he had been staying with were already wearing their faces when they surrounded his bed. He heard them enter, even in his sleep, and had risen before they could speak or shake him awake.

“The Court has summoned you,” one of them said.

He got dressed and followed them through the secret passageway in the Owls’ home, hidden behind a bookshelf. The shadowy passages led him throughout Old Gotham, where they finally came to a missing panel in the wall. The head Owl made the call, the owl’s song reverberating in the small space. The object blocking the entryway moved, light pouring into the space, hitting directly into Dick’s eyes.

“Good,” the Owl guarding the entryway said when his gaze fell on Dick. “Bring him in.”

Dick entered the space, recognizing the room. They were in the same house where the Court congregated for their meetings—Dick had never been allowed to participate, but when he was young, sometimes he was forced to wait in the other room. As he looked around the room, he froze when he saw Talon already sitting there.

Talons could not bleed, not really. The electrum in their bodies thickened the blood so it would not easily spill. But they could still break. Dick saw the mangled arm and his heartbeat picked up. He started forward but Talon quickly looked up at him, the gold-rimmed lenses seeming to stare right into him. Dick stopped midstep, eventually reeling himself back.

As a disciple, he was expected to maintain the same level of rigidness as any Talon—that meant he couldn’t get emotionally invested or upset, at least not while sharing a room with the elite Owls. So he forced himself to keep still.

“What happened?” asked one of the Owls who Dick had come with.

An Owl on the other side of the room, fitted with a black mask, spoke first, “Who else? Our meddling Bat. He needs to be eliminated.”

“He will be,” Talon cut in. “He just took me by surprise. I was expecting him to be alone, not running around with some pup.”

Dick frowned. He knew about Batman—everyone did—and he knew that the Court had ordered for his death, and that his mentor had been the one ordered to carry it out. While he had the utmost faith that Talon would be able to complete the task, he understood that it wouldn’t be easy. But to think that the Talon was bested like this, all because Batman had backup, was concerning.

“What does he mean?” an Owl asked the one in the black mask.

“What, do you not understand words?” the Owl shot back. She shook her head. “He’s saying there’s some junior Bat running around.”

“Junior?” another asked. “Are you saying the Talon was bested by some child?”

“Not that young,” Talon corrected. “But definitely not fully grown. And he didn’t best me—he just caught me off guard. They were expecting me. They even had a trap ready to freeze me.”

The Owls all stopped and glanced at each other. The unspoken fear hung in the air—they wondered how Batman had discovered the secret to defeating the Talons, and what it meant for their work.

“If the Gray Son joins me, however, we could defeat the Bat and his pup,” Talon said, sounding determined. Dick felt everyone’s eyes on him. Felt the mixed emotions in the room.

“There needs to be two of you? Then why not activate another Talon? The Gray Son is just a disciple—”

“The Bat doesn’t kill,” the Owl in the black mask cut in. “Talon’s strategy is sound. If we send a live person, he will have to relent his use of the freezing technology. It could throw him off guard.”

“And what if it doesn’t work?” an Owl asked. “What if the Gray Son is seriously harmed or killed? All of the training will have been for nothing.”

The Owl in the black mask looked at Dick. She shrugged a shoulder. “If he can’t defeat the Bat, then he’s of no use to us anyways.”

“I’ll do it,” Dick said. Carefully, he added, “If the Court orders it.”

“The Court does,” she said.

“Aye,” the rest of the Owls agreed, and there was a murmur of their motto amongst a few of them.

The Owl in the black mask moved towards Talon. Dick watched her carefully as she pulled off his mask. She tilted his head back, opening his jaw. Dick instantly recognized what she was doing—this time, he did not pull back.

“What are you doing?” he demanded, stepping forward. The Owls instantly parted out of his way, startled by this man that they could not yet control. Dick didn’t bother to bask in the moment—but he halted when the Talon held up his good hand, stopping him.

“It’s alright, Richard,” he said. Dick stopped, though the adrenaline was rushing through his veins. It wasn't often that he saw Talon’s face but on a few occasions, the face reminded him of his father’s—but he knew it was just wishful thinking. His father was dead, and the Talon carried nothing remotely Roma in his features. “They’re going repair my arm. It’ll be easier this way.”

Dick could not argue. The Owl glanced at him and, deciding he was not going to interfere any further, returned to what she was doing. She reached into the Talon’s mouth, activating the electrum tooth. The Talon’s arms fell at his side, his body returning to stasis. Dick watched, chest clenching at the sight—he tried to remind himself that the lifeless body was not actually dead. Tried to forget that all it took was a switch to take everything away.

He wasn’t dead. But looking at him, Dick could only remember that Talon was also not alive.

 

Dick glanced over, watching as Talon squeezed his fist—flexing the repaired forearm. The surgeon and electrum had done wonders—the Talon had a fully functioning arm within hours, though this was the first time they had seen each other since. Dick had spent much of that time anxious and wondering, fearing that the Owls had locked him away in the crypts.

As they waited in the shadows, Dick felt tension. He wasn’t afraid of the night that was to come. Although he wasn’t sure what to expect of the Dark Knight, and knew of his prowess, he trusted in his and the Talon’s abilities.

“You need to show more discipline,” Talon said. It was the first thing he had said all night—and the only thing he had said to Dick since his recovery. “The way you acted in front of the Court was unacceptable.”

“I know,” Dick said, tensing, but the argument bubbled up anyways. “The last time they put you in stasis—”

“Richard, that was years ago. You were still a child. When you become a Talon, you have to learn to let everything go.”

“Including you,” Dick with a tone of finality. At that, Talon grew quiet for a moment. But he finally nodded.

“Yes. Especially me. After the trials, after you defeat me and become Talon, I’ll be placed back in stasis, and you will become the Talon who will carry out the orders for the Court.”

Dick’s mind drifted back to the early days. Talon had never been particularly kind. He was too stoic, too distant—as he had to be. But he had been helpful and patient. Dick’s first years of training with the Owls had been a terrifying and lonely experience. He had been taken away from the only life he knew, his parents and friends were gone. He no longer performed for applause but for an audience of expressionless faces, where failure resulted in punishment. He trained through the strictest discipline he had ever imagined, adopting lifestyle changes that forced him into silence and obedience. Every night, he moved from place to place to live, so that nothing felt like home and all the faces remained strangers.

The only constant in his life had been Talon.

Dick didn’t realize how far his dependency had stretched until the Court tried to replace Talon with another one of their assassins—for reasons that Dick still was not sure of. Dick supposed the Court had attempted it just because they could. Regardless, Dick had fled instantly when it happened.

When the Court had found him and brought his mentor back to him, Dick began to realize that he did have some power. There was no other reason why they would have backed down on their orders, giving his Talon back to him. But at that point, he was too conditioned to care or exploit the fact. He was just content to have things back to the way they were.

“You’re all I have,” Dick confessed, and he knew he was pushing his boundaries, but Talon did not scold him.

“When you become Talon, you will feel no pain. No fear. It’s the best that can be offered to you, Gray Son. It’s what you and I have worked for. But I meant what I said: you have to give up everything. There is no other option.”

“What did you give up?” Dick found himself asking, the words escaping him before he could think.

Talon looked at him for a moment, slowly shaking his head. “It's almost like you listen—but then you say something, and prove that it all goes out the other ear.”

Talon was done talking about it. He stood up, ready to move to their next spot.

“He’s not coming here. We need to track him down elsewhere.”

“Is he as strong as everyone says he is?” Dick asked as he followed.

“A Bat is no match for an Owl,” Talon said simply. “It is, I will admit, a close match. If it wasn’t for the electrum, I’m not certain I would survive. That being said, your goal is to simply make sure that the pup doesn’t get in my way.”

“Should it be an easy task?”

“Will you succeed? Yes. Will it be easy? Perhaps not. He’s been well trained.”

“If he fights like the Bat, I should be able to handle it without a problem.”

“That’s the thing—he doesn’t fight like the Bat. He fights like us.”

“An assassin? But Batman would never—”

“Batman would never team up with anyone—that’s what we had been led to believe. Still, you’re right. Killing has always been a taboo for him and that’s what gives us the advantage. We need to trust that when it comes down to it, the Bat won’t have you killed.”

“Still, it doesn’t make sense why he’d keep help.”

“I have a feeling their connection is personal,” Talon said quietly.

Suddenly, there was something that drew their attention to the sky. Dick and Talon both turned their heads, witnessing the Bat’s symbol emblazoned on the clouds. The searchlight.

“Tonight is going to be easy for us,” Talon said, pleased.

They took the passageways since it was quicker, taking them as close to the police station as they could get. The rest of the journey was quick. They waited on a rooftop, concealed. Dick caught the shadow first, swinging from the rooftop. Dick took off immediately in the same direction, Talon close behind him. It felt good to run, to get another chance at a mission, especially one so challenging. The adrenaline was already rushing through Dick’s veins. He felt alive.

They stalked them for awhile, waiting for the opportune moment when they were far enough out of the city that they could strike without drawing attention. Talon moved in first—he didn’t have to speak or signal to Dick, Dick knew him well enough to follow his lead without any spoken direction.

Talon threw one of his knives at the back of the Bat. It was a perfectly executed throw—but something spun after it, the sound of steel clanging against steel, knocking the knife out of the air. Batman’s partner had spotted it in time. Dick realized Talon was right—the pup did seem to know what he was doing but again, Dick expected nothing less if he was going to be fighting side by side with Batman.

The strike didn't land but it did alert their attention.

Talon charged in first, starting the battle. He quickly danced around Batman’s thrown punches and kicks. The pup moved in to help but Dick landed in the spot behind him, quickly tugging the hood down in front of his eyes. The younger fighter growled, knocking Dick away.

Dick suddenly heard the familiar sound of sliding steel, was taken aback when the pup slid a sword from a sheathe that Dick hadn’t noticed until now. Talon was right—Batman had never been spotted fighting with a sword. This wasn’t his style.

Dick wasn’t intimidated by the weapon. He had trained against a sword and more.

He stepped back in time as the sword aimed at his middle. Such a blow, if it landed, might have cut through him. Might have spilled his guts to the ground. But Dick was faster. He caught a glimpse of eyes beneath the shadow of the hood, staring back at him in a way that Dick didn’t recognize. Something that briefly reminded him of Calvin, the only man that he had faced who was unafraid. It was especially strange, seeing such a gaze within such wide, young eyes.

The pup rushed forward, looking determined. Dick felt almost amused by how easy it was, easily sidestepping out of the way of the hasty attack. As Dick moved out of the way, he pulled a dagger from his belt, and nearly mourned how quick this was all going to be. It wasn’t often that he and Talon had to _fight_. But when he stepped in closer to stab the dagger into the pup’s back, something struck the side of Dick’s face.

He had almost forgotten about the Bat, since Talon insisted on fighting him. He had been positioned too closely to the vigilante. The force of his punch had knocked Dick’s mask off his face. He didn't reach to grab it, he immediately turned to block the next oncoming blow. But before Batman could strike again, he suddenly pulled back the punch when they came face to face.

“You're alive,” he breathed.

The following seemed to happen in an instant. Dick’s brow furrowed in confusion, also taken aback. It wasn't just the observation that Dick wasn't a Talon—there was a trace of emotion there that Dick couldn't pinpoint. What did he mean by that? But Talon tackled Batman over, knocking him into the ground, and Dick realized he needed to focus.

He didn't focus quick enough. Dick turned in time to narrowly avoid a swordswing. But he found himself losing balance, falling on one knee.

For a moment, it looked like the sword was going to drive downward—which would have been a fatal blow—but there was a stutter in the boy’s movements, a flicker in his eyes as he looked upon Dick’s living face. He hesitated—and the fraction of a second was all Dick needed to trip him.

Dick got up. His opponent regained his footing at the same time. Dick saw a flash of steel but sidestepped out of the way, quickly swiping his dagger in return.  
            The boy was touched by the edge of the dagger, shallowly cutting him across the cheek, ripping through the mask he used to conceal his lower face, but not enough to expose his identity. Before Dick could go for another strike, the pup was suddenly yanked out of his reach.

Dick spotted the Bat in time but not quick enough to do anything about the smoke bomb that fell. Dick focused on his senses but it was all murky—the Bat and his pup were just as trained in the ways of stealth as he and Talon were.

Dick suddenly felt a familiar hand on his shoulder.

“They escaped. We'll have to track them again once the smoke clears. Follow me,” Talon said and Dick did not argue.

Their prey had done well to cover their tracks. Once the smoke had released, there seemed to be no trace of where they had gone. It took a good five minutes before Dick finally spotted a single drop of blood on the ground below. Dick looked around, trying to trace where they might have gone from there.

“The subway tunnels,” Talon decided. Dick looked in his direction, seeing the closed off entrance to an abandoned station. Sure enough, the boarded up panels seemed to have been moved.

They went down into the tunnels, the only signs of life seeming to be the rats that scurried off at their presence. That is, until Dick spotted another blood splatter—a sign that seemed to compel him further into the tunnel. He moved ahead without Talon’s permission, following it into unexplored territory.

The subway station was old, filled with cobwebs and unfinished construction. The air cold and moist. Dick moved through a narrow opening—the walls beside him a web of steel bars and wooden panels, some abandoned scaffolding. He couldn't hear Talon but he felt his mentor following him like a shadow.

In the few minutes they had lost sight of them, Batman must have come up with a plan.

Because this time, the duo were prepared.

They had neared the end of the pathway when Dick heard the clink—a sound of metal against metal. Dick looked up at the ceiling—all he saw was the blinking red dot and he already knew. He quickly leapt out of the way as the exploding batarang went off.

There was suddenly a loud hiss of air. Dick looked back to see that Talon had dodged in the opposite direction, stuck inside the tunnel of the scaffolding.

The pipe had burst—a _cooling_ pipe. Talon immediately drew back, just narrowly avoiding the burst of cold air that came rushing through. Dick was relieved to see that Talon was okay—but then he realized the trick. They were separated.

And it wasn’t just the Talon they were after.

Dick moved out of the way just as the pup charged at him, sensing him in time—but in the process, the Bat came in on his blind spot, pulling him into a hold—before Dick could shake him off, he felt a prick on the back of his neck.

“ _Richard_!”

Whatever the Bat injected him with, it worked terrifyingly fast. Dick’s body instantly felt heavy and he collapsed to the ground. Everything went numb and blurry until he felt nothing at all.

 

Dick awoke with his eyes still closed. He could feel sensation returning to his limbs. He tested the movement in his hands, slowly regaining more mobility the more he practiced clenching and unclenching his fists.

He slowly became aware of his skin. His hands were bare and cold, arms light. They must have removed his bracers and gloves. But there was still something tight across his forearm—restraints, he realized. Straps across his arms, his chest, his middle. Still no feeling in his legs—he tried to roll his ankles, wiggle his toes, anything, but they were so numb he couldn’t even be sure if he had control over them.

He instead focused on his face. He clenched his teeth, rotated his jaw. Opening his eyes were far more difficult—his eyelids were heavy, like he was in the deepest sleep of his life. He forced them open.

The artificial lights were harsh on the eyes. His vision cleared, focusing. He was in a foreign place. He heard the distant sound of water. The sounds of flapping wings. He saw rocky walls, contrasted against bright steel flooring and shelves.

As well as a dinosaur, a giant penny, and a huge playing card.

Dick stared, confused.

He heard a light scraping sound. He lifted his gaze, finding steel on whetstone. He looked, at first not recognizing the person with the sword. It didn’t take long for his head to put it together—it was the pup. His hood had been drawn back, his mask and most of his armored pieces also removed, but it was definitely him. Dick watched him carefully, saw his dark brows furrowed in concentration as he honed the blade.

Dick looked closely at the pommel, noticing a demon’s face in the bronze. He eyed it carefully, recognizing it.

Suddenly, crystal eyes flickered up. He did a double-take, realizing Dick was awake, but his gaze soon went back to what he was doing. After a moment, he called out, “Father. Your stupid bird is awake.”

Dick heard footsteps from behind him, moving around the chair he had been strapped to. It wasn’t the Bat—instead, it was an older, thinner man with a balding head and thin mustache.

“Remarkable,” he said, with a noticeable English accent. Dick’s expression remained as hardened as ever—but he was observing, taking in the man’s clothing. He was dressed formally, in white gloves and dress shoes. He almost looked like a butler—the get-up confused Dick, until he remembered that Bruce Wayne was rich. Disguising an ally as a butler was actually quite clever. “Those tranquilizers should have lasted much longer.”

Heavy footsteps. Dick didn’t turn his head—kept his face forward, steadfast—but he saw his head capturer enter his peripherals. Dick was face to face with the man, not the Bat. The cowl had been removed as well as most of the uniform. Bruce Wayne looked him up and down, frowning. Dick had difficulties reading him—he couldn’t tell if he was in awe or grim disbelief.

“Dick Grayson,” Bruce finally said.

Dick blinked, his self control faltering at the nickname. He kept his face expressionless but his heart was beating quicker. He would have expected the detective to have figured out his full name—but with the exception of Calvin, he hadn’t been called by his nickname since he was a boy. He had to wonder how he knew.

“You don’t know me—not really. You only know what you’ve been told. But I know you,” Bruce said. He nodded to himself, a distant look in his eye, some memory returning to him. “I was there that day. The day that your parents fell from the ceiling.”

Dick’s face remained unfeeling but he felt a cold rage run through his body at the mention of his parents, spoken from the tongue of his enemy. Dick had learned to kill willingly but he never felt the impulse or desire to do it until that moment. He remembered Talon, thinking, _Never trust a Wayne_.

“You were supposed to leave with me. My manor was supposed to be your home. I was supposed to be your guardian. But you disappeared.” Bruce paused for a moment, adding, “I’ve spent years wondering what happened to you and here you are. They took you, didn’t they? The Owls.”

Old memories slowly returned to him. Memories of being picked up by police. Memories of talking to social workers, of them telling him he was alone with no living kin. Remembered _being_ alone, until Talon came to him.

But Talon didn’t take him. Dick went with, willingly.

Dick remained silent.

“Could he possibly be mute?” the butler asked when there was no response. He raised an eyebrow at Dick.

“No,” the pup said at once. “He can talk, he’s just not going to. It’s a code of silence. Some of the disciples in the stealth operations had to do the same in the League of Assassins.”

League of Assassins. Dick’s suspicion about the demon’s head was correct.

“That or he simply doesn’t want to speak to us,” Bruce said flatly.

Dick just stared forward.

“We could make him talk,” the pup said, his hand still resting on the hilt of his sword. Even while bound and surrounded by enemies, Dick was hardly intimidated—even found the threat to be laughable.

Bruce looked back at the boy sharply. “Simmer down.”

Dick was so amused by the exchange that he couldn’t resist the single laugh that escaped. They all looked at him, alert, but Dick had already reverted back to silence. The pup scowled, annoyed.

“We can’t force him to say anything,” Bruce said, and whatever objections the others may have had were kept silent. “I’m going to keep working on refitting the bunker. Damian, keep an eye on him. Pennyworth… keep an eye on Damian.”

“Yes, Master Bruce.”

“ _Tt_.”

Dick’s eyes followed Bruce as he left the space. The butler also disappeared from Dick’s line of vision. The boy, presumably named Damian, meanwhile dragged a chair forward—the legs scraping against the roughly textured floor with a grating sound. He was at a decent enough distance, sitting on the chair with his legs drawn up, ankles crossed. He looked at Dick, bored.

Dick wasn’t sure what to make of him. The boy’s eyes were sharp, eyes lightly colored. The more Dick looked at them, the more he sensed what Talon was talking about. The familial connection. It was subtle, especially underneath the racial differences, but it was definitely there.

“Do you always _stare_?” Damian suddenly said. Dick hadn’t even realized he’d been staring but he didn’t want to back down, so he didn’t move at the question. He continued staring, unblinking. Damian sighed, his eyes seeming to grow more tired. “Father seems to think you have some worth. I, however, do not feel similarly. If you try anything _stupid_ , I will easily kill you without hesitation.”

Dick just continued to look at him, indifferent. There was a shift in the pup’s gaze. He seemed almost annoyed that Dick wasn’t giving in to his goading.

“It wouldn’t even be difficult,” Damian said with a snort. He rested his chin on his hand. “Father and I were trying to spare you both—and you two were coming at us with the intentions to _kill_ , and you _still_ failed. _Tt_. If anyone in the League of Assassins failed so miserably, they wouldn’t even bother returning to get reprimanded. They’d likely just commit suicide.”

“Did it hurt?” Dick asked suddenly.

The pup frowned, clearly not expecting Dick to say anything at all—even though he clearly had been hunting for a response. He looked at him suspiciously but took the bait anyways. “Did what hurt?”

“When I cut your face,” Dick said.

Damian sat up straight, bristling in annoyance. The cut was still fresh on his cheek, healing.

But he simply just narrowed his eyes and bit back, “I don’t know. Was your feathered boyfriend hurt when I shattered his arm?”

At that, Dick was bothered, his gaze darkening.

“If my father wasn’t there, I would have hacked it off too. What exactly happens to you freaks anyways, when your limbs come off? Do you just tie it back on? Or do you regrow them, like worms?” Damian said. Dick didn’t answer. A sudden thought must have crossed Damian’s mind, because he suddenly snickered to himself. “If I cut off his head, will he still run around? What’s the phrase, a ‘chicken with his head cut off’? Seems quite fitting, since your whole organization seems to want to mate with birds anyways.”

“You wouldn’t want to do that,” Dick said.

“Why not? I think it’d be quite entertaining. I could even throw the head and see which of you could fetch it faster.”

“No,” Dick said, allowing his indifferent expression to fall into mock concern. “Because you might make _Father_ mad.”

“For someone who shouldn’t be speaking—”Dick picked up on the raised volume of Damian’s voice, and the way the pup’s feet returned to the ground and his body leaned forward, and it was difficult to not laugh at his temper“—you’re rather _mouthy_ , aren’t you?”

“For someone who claims to be from the League of Assassins, you’re plenty mouthy enough for the both of us.”

Damian got up and struck him, hard. Dick saw the blow coming but didn’t bother moving, as it would have been futile anyhow. He took the strike, unflinching, the pain shooting across his jaw, and he felt blood begin to well up in his mouth. The sound of impact instantly alerted the butler, Pennyworth.

“Master Damian!” he exclaimed, rushing over. Dick spat out the blood. Pennyworth watched, sighing heavily. He pulled out a handkerchief but before he could get close, Damian held his arm in front of him, stopping him.

“Don’t get close to him, Alfred.”

“Then what do you expect of me?” Pennyworth said, taking a step back. His brow furrowed, adding, “Your father will not be pleased about this.”

“Calm down, Pennyworth,” Damian said, exasperated. “It was one blow. If I seriously wanted to hurt him, you’d need more than just your used handkerchief. You'd need a mop.”

They left him alone after that. When Bruce came back around, he noticed the blood on Dick’s face, frowning. Instead of turning to Damian, he turned to Pennyworth.

“I told you to watch him,” Bruce said.

“With all due respect, Master Bruce, he’s your son. Not mine. I’ve had my turn raising complicated teenagers,” Alfred said, arching an eyebrow.

Eventually Dick was released from the chair, but only after he had been handcuffed. After his encounter with Calvin, the steel handcuffs seemed relatively flimsy in comparison—but Dick was in a strange environment, surrounded by enemies, so he didn’t dare to attempt an escape. He would have to formulate a proper plan first. Dick let Bruce lead him to a small room.

Bruce had mentioned a bunker—Dick realized that this must have been it, only repurposed to become a cell. The shelves were stripped barren and the edges of the door were shiny and new—it must have been a solid door replaced with one of reinforced glass, although Dick could not be sure if the transparent material was for him to be able to look out or if it was for them to look at him.

It made no difference to Dick. Every night he had slept in a stranger’s home. The main concern Dick had was being separated from Talon. As he sat in the cell, thinking of all the people he was estranged from, all of those strange owl faces, he quickly realized that was Talon was just about the only matter he was concerned with.

He sat in the cell at the edge of a cot. Even as hours passed waiting for something, _anything_ else, to happen—he was not unused to the boredom. His childhood was filled with it. Between training, there was no room for him to make friends. The only people around his age had been the Owlets, who treated him as an anomaly when he was placed in their homes. They didn’t talk to him, much less played games with him, and the few times they tried, it was usually in an attempt to boss him around—and so as a kid, he hated other children, and his only form of entertainment during the days were Talon’s lessons. And even the lessons themselves were incredibly mundane.

The Owls only really seemed to show a personal interest in him after he hit puberty, when his shoulders had broadened and muscles had hardened. And even then, it wasn’t so much as a personal interest but as a desire. Attention in exchange for something they wanted—not that Dick minded much, especially if it involved a pretty one dragging him into their bed. But at that point, he was resolute. His loyalty was to the Owls, but it was a strictly professional relationship. There was no friendship or love involved. Just a group of people with a common goal: to maintain order, control, and tradition.

So a cell was nothing to him.

As he sat in the confined room, with nothing to do, he kept this in mind—that this was easy. Because even in the hands of his enemies, he was not afraid—for the Owls had prepared him for much worse.

 

Dick slept longer than he intended, still sitting upright. The sound of the door opening awoke him and he quickly straightened himself, hoping that he had not been caught with his eyes closed.

“I hope you’re not allergic to anything. I didn’t think to ask before I made breakfast,” the butler, Pennyworth, announced as he delivered the tray of food. Dick frowned, feeling skeptical, and the butler must have noticed. “Well, don’t look at it as if it’s poisoned… unless you’re looking at it because you _are_ allergic.”

“Who cares? He’s a prisoner. You should be feeding him the scraps from Titus’ bowl.” Dick glanced over, saw Damian observing from the doorway—likely to keep watch. And that he did—Dick wasn't sure if Damian was _ever_ going to stop glaring at him.

“Master Bruce made it clear that Master Dick is not a prisoner, but a guest.” In a lower voice, rather dryly, he said, “Our reluctant, tied-up, _guest_.”

“What do you suppose they feed him anyways?” Damian said, snorting. There was a small sense of cruel amusement in his eyes. “Sunflower seeds?”

“Owls don’t eat seeds,” Dick said. He looked at him. “But they do eat bats.”

The jab didn’t go unnoticed. “I could get you some bats instead, if you prefer.”

“Only if you feed it to me.”

“ _Tt_.”

“Come now, Master Damian,” Pennyworth said in a weary voice, eyes rolling back. “Let’s leave our guest alone.”

Dick didn’t touch the meal. It was clear that these people weren’t going to kill him, so he doubted the food was poisoned. But it could have been laced with just about anything else—things that could theoretically make him more complacent, where they could then interrogate him. Or things that could make him weak, where they could then _force_ the truth. Above all, though, his reasoning had to do with the simple fact that they were his enemies. It had nothing to do with pride, though their protection of him did feel a bit akin to babysitting which was degrading. Moreso, it had to do with loyalty to the Owls. He wasn’t going to add any reason, no matter how little, to be _thankful_ to the Waynes.

_Never trust a Wayne_.

It was a few hours later that he was pulled, handcuffed, back into the center of the cave. At a round table, Dick sat with the Bat, the pup, and the butler.

Dick subtly glanced out of his peripherals, taking note of a shelf filled with arsenal and tools. It’d be too obvious of an escape if he tried to rush it. Down below were a series of vehicles—but while Dick knew how to drive, the technology seemed advanced, and even if he escaped, he was certain that the Bat would outchase him. Perhaps he could trick his way out—the butler seemed cautious enough, but he was still a lightweight. Dick could capture him as a hostage and then break his way out.

Dick’s mental plans were cut short when Bruce slid a few papers and photographs across the table. Dick stopped—the first photograph his eyes landed on was a picture of his mother, hanging off a highly decorated trapeze by just her heels. Dick could pinpoint the exact tour it was by her outfit—they had travelled with a circus in Europe, in the autumn of his eighth birthday. Day in and day out, they performed—and at nights, they played a different show, where his mother did her solo act. She would climb onto her trapeze on the ground and would be lifted up into the air, in an outfit that cinched her waist to an hourglass, and golden slippers that matched the moons and stars embroidered on her chest and neck and arms.

It wasn’t the last time he had seen her. The last time he had seen her, she was laying in a blood splattered circus ring. But with no photographs of his own, this was the first time he had seen her face since that day.

A mixed feeling rose up through him—a mixture of disgust and sadness. But he didn’t express it. He simply stared down, his face a mask of indifference.

“I know that you’re loyal to the Court,” Bruce said, hands folded on the table. “I know that over all of these years, they raised you. They taught you how to survive, how to be strong. But you have to know that they did not do this out of love—they did it to make you a _tool_. They are _not_ your family.”

Dick stared blankly at the photos, not knowing where else to look. He looked at all of the countries he had gone to, the shows he had performed. Every spring, summer, autumn and even winter. He remembered the songs and choreography that had once been ingrained into his brain, the voices of announcers he may have heard only a few times, the heat of the trailers and the bumpy roads, the smell of popcorn. Crowds of strangers, standing and applauding and cheering, who loved him all in an exchange for a performance. And it hardly ever felt like a fair trade-off, or difficult despite the hours of intense training, because he would have flown on a trapeze willingly and freely whenever, wherever.

“I can’t say it would have been easy living with me,” Dick could hear Bruce say. “I can’t say that I could have provided for you any better than your parents, or the Owls, did. But I would have let you made your own choices.”

Choice.

At that, Dick stopped. Remembering.

A window slowly opening, in a foreign place where he could not sleep. The night of his parents’ deaths. Golden eyes in the shadows, a gleaming owl engraved on an outstretched gauntlet. All, with an offer of a choice.

A choice that Dick took. A choice that Dick did not regret.

But then he remembered another window. A full moon glaring through the pane. He remembered the other half of the choice he made—warm blood and tears on a carpet. Talon by his side, an owl engraved on a cold steel blade.

His path could have gone so many other ways.

Still, he just stared.

Bruce leaned back in his chair, looking a little frustrated by Dick’s lack of cooperation.

“Perhaps we should let Master Damian speak to him. He seems to spare no words when talking to him,” Pennyworth said lightheartedly. It was a joke, but even so, Damian sneered.

“I prefer it when he’s silent.”

“Neither of you are helping,” Bruce said, looking at them pointedly.

“Because you’re wasting your breath, Father,” Damian said, leaning back in his chair, arms crossed. Even with his intense gaze, Bruce would not look him in the eye. “He’s already been brainwashed by the Owls. He isn’t going to join you, no matter how much convincing you try. We should be using him to find the Owls. Just use him to show us their nest, throw him in Blackgate, and be done with it. He’s of no use to us otherwise.”

“We’ll find the Owls. Regardless, this isn’t about defeating them. It’s about helping _him_.” Bruce stopped, sighing softly. He looked back at Dick with a hard gaze. “Now, I don’t know everything about the Court. Their secrets run deep. What I do know is that I can help you escape.”

Dick thought of Calvin Rose. He had managed to escape—but he was running still. Running and running.

“The Owls never die,” Dick found himself saying. He meant it to sound intimidating, but it sounded damning instead.

“If you stay, they’ll make you one of theirs, and I won’t be able to reverse it,” Bruce said, frowning. “It’s permanent. You’ll be their Talon. Their assassin. Their _slave_.”

Dick’s heart began to beat a little quicker. He wanted to vehemently deny it—but then he thought of Talon and his electrum tooth, how the Court had shut him off by their own hand. Dick wondered if he would end up like that. But leaving meant more than just not being able to escape—it meant that a lot of his training had been for nothing. It meant disappointing his mentor, the closest thing to a friend or family that he had since his real parents died. The one who held his hand as he executed his revenge on the people who made him alone in the first place. It meant removing his purpose—and for what?

Some stranger, and his butler and moody son?

Dick ceased speaking, eyes narrowing. He didn’t even want to waste his breath arguing with the man—and it seemed his silence seemed to irritate the Bat more than any words he could scream at him anyways.

 

They were talking about him.

He could not hear the words but the glass door allowed him to see their faces, read their words. He could not understand everything but from what he could gather, it seemed that they were trying to decide their next plan on what to do with him. Eventually, much later, they finally opened the door.

Dick looked at them. Bruce and Damian were dressed in their uniforms. Bruce nodded with his head.

“We’re taking you to Blackgate,” Bruce said.

The man never seemed pleased. Still, Dick knew that this hadn’t been part of his plan. He had hoped to give Dick a chance to become one of them, even willing to forgive his past transgressions—significant, considering the Bat was notoriously unforgiving. Dick kept this in mind, following them into the Cave. As they headed towards the batmobile, they passed a wall of equipment, and Dick’s eyes landed on his own items that were placed neatly on the table. They were all replaceable—but he would, admittedly, miss the mask.

“Wait,” he said, stopping. He felt both of their eyes on him. “You said you wanted to know how to find the Owls.”

Bruce looked at him, not speaking. He just listened.

“I can show you—but in exchange, you have to spare me and my mentor,” Dick said. Almost as an afterthought, he added, “And I want my mask, for sentimental reasons.”

“Is this a joke?” Damian said, sounding almost amused.

“I don’t want to be imprisoned,” Dick said. “The truth is that the Talon and I have been making plans to escape for a long time. You’re right. The Owls don’t care about us.”

At this, there was a pause. The pup’s gaze was untrusting as always. Bruce, on the other hand, seemed to be deep in thought. He also seemed reluctant to believe—and yet, he seemed to want to hold on. Impatient, Damian huffed.

“It’s some type of trick. It has to be. He didn’t want to cooperate before, why would he now?”

“You weren’t threatening to take me to Blackgate before,” Dick said pointedly. “And I was unwilling to join your side, which still remains true. But I’m willing to give up working for the Court if it means freedom.”

“I can spare you but I can’t help the Talon. He’s dangerous and could have ended his path many times—but instead, he chose to become a tool for the Court to use. He’s been loyal to them for decades and I can’t trust him,” Bruce said.

“I can show you where the Owls operate,” Dick said.

“I still say it’s a trick,” Damian said at once, eyes darting in Dick’s direction.

“Show us where it is and I’ll spare you, and I’ll keep your words in mind when we go after the Talon, but I make no promises in that regard.”

“And the mask.”

“And the mask,” Bruce said, shaking his head. Dick could sense his skepticism but he gestured at Pennyworth, who went to fetch it. Dick stood still as the butler adjusted it on him.

Once it was in place, Dick said, “I’m ready.”

But just as they turned around, Dick quickly moved—linking his wrists near Pennyworth’s throat, the chain that binded his handcuffs digging into the butler’s throat so suddenly that he couldn’t even gasp.

Damian immediately started forward, hand reaching for his belt, but Bruce stopped him.

“What do you want?” Bruce immediately growled.

“You’re going to give me one of your vehicles. You’re going to let me leave,” Dick said. “In return, I don’t choke your butler.”

“It’s because the eggs were runny, wasn’t it?” Alfred said. Dick just pulled harder on the chain, cutting off his words.

“You can’t be serious,” Damian said, voice dripping in disdain. “ _Coward_ —”

“It was your mistake letting him get close to me,” Dick said.

“Not a mistake. _Respect_ ,” Alfred choked out. “In our short time together, I never got around to telling you my stories in the service—”

Then there was a sudden pain in his gut. Dick was staggered momentarily—he hadn’t even processed that Alfred was the one who struck him until he managed to slip out. Dick moved to catch him but a batarang came hurling after him—which Dick lifted his wrists for, letting the batarang break through one of the links.

Dick didn’t stop. Plan A failed, he still had Plan B. Bruce came at him but Dick deftly dodged around him, racing off. Damian caught up to him next, managed to grab ahold of him.

“What was it you said happened to League assassins who failed?” Dick said, breaking the hold. Dick caught a glimpse of Damian’s glare, just as he slipped away. Dick couldn’t resist goading. “I bet you are actually dying on the inside now.”

They chased him to the edge of the platform. Dick didn’t hesitate, hopping onto the railing that fenced off the area from the bluff. As he overlooked the rushing water, Dick’s mind travelled back to his mission with Talon, and the last words Calvin said to him.

_I’m never going to stop running_.

Dick didn’t know where he was running _to_ —but the words still felt true. He leapt into the rushing waters, felt himself crash into the dark, cold waters. Sinking. He pushed through the water with all of his strength, breaking the surface and releasing the breath he had been holding. He struggled to stay afloat and dodge the jutting boulders as the current dragged and pulled him. Through his drenched bangs, he managed to catch sight of the exit—where all of the water in the cave tunneled out into the bay—and he held his breath and closed his eyes, letting the water plunge him underneath its surface, and secretly prayed that it’d carry him back into Gotham.

 

He had travelled on foot all the way into Old Gotham, drenched and freezing. He slipped into the nearest passageway he could find, following the cramped and dusty tunnels to the nearest Owls’ nest. He gave the call and they let him in, their shock apparent in their unmasked faces.

He was situated in a bedroom, drying off, when the door suddenly opened. When he saw who entered, he immediately stood—but any words he wanted to say were instantly caught in his throat.

He hadn’t expected the sudden surge of emotion in his chest when he saw Talon standing there. But even when the door closed and there were no Owls around, Dick knew he had to remain calm and composed. As always.

“They said you escaped through the bay,” Talon said, breaking the ice.

Dick nodded, gaze lowering. “He had some type of a safehouse—far outside of the city. I have no idea _where_ , but it’s some cave near the bay. If we go back there, I might be able to find it again—”

“No,” Talon said, holding his hand up. “It’s too soon to go back out there. Besides, the Court has new plans for taking care of the Bat.”

Dick relaxed. He tossed his towel on the nearest surface. “I’ll be honest—I’ve wanted to go swimming for awhile, but that wasn’t what I was hoping for.”

Talon wasn’t laughing. He never laughed.

“I wasn’t sure what happened to you,” Talon said, quietly. Dick looked at him, taken aback by the subtle emotion in his voice. Talon stared off in another direction and continued, “I looked everywhere. I regret not chasing after you.”

“How could you?” Dick said, shrugging casually. But in truth, Talon’s unusual display was confusing him. He didn’t seem to be speaking with a sense of shame in his failure to defeat the Bat. Instead, he seemed to be speaking of his shame in not finding Dick. It was the first time, in a long time, that Dick had shared empathy with another being.

Save for those moments with Bruce, that is, but Dick still wasn’t sure how he felt about that situation. He thought briefly of his mother’s golden slippers.

“What happened to your face?” Talon said, tapping lightly on the bruise on Dick’s cheek. Dick touched it, at first thinking maybe he had gotten it when he was getting tossed around in the water, but when his fingertips touched the skin he suddenly remembered. Dick couldn’t resist smiling at the memory.

“The pup has a temper.”

“So they tortured you? I don’t understand.”

“No,” Dick said, taken aback by the insinuation—but then he remembered that they were his enemies, and there was nothing surprising about Talon’s assumption. He fixed the expression on his face. “They were—” _welcoming_? _Amusing_?”—not a threat. Also, you guessed right—they are related. Father and son. And they have another ally as well—Bruce Wayne’s butler, who’s a bit stronger than he looks.”

“Damn the Waynes,” Talon cursed anyways, stepping back. “They spoil everything. I should kill the pup too. End the bloodline, once and for all.”

Dick tried to understand—he had been granted his vengeance. Talon, for whatever may have caused his grievances with the Wayne bloodline, had never been granted the same satisfaction. Still, Talon was talking crazy. His sudden ferocity was not like him. Dick tried to reason with him, “The Court did not order for it. They only asked for Batman’s death.”

“If I explained to them that his child was in the way too—”Talon started and Dick suddenly realized, with fear, that he did not want that. His mind briefly went back to another day, with steel in his grasp and a bleeding girl on a carpet—back to a time, in what felt so long ago, that he had doubt about the ethics of his actions. Batman was an enemy, his death was necessary, but the others—Dick stopped, trying to erase his thoughts. He knew he wasn’t allowed to feel that way, so he found an excuse instead.

“The Court isn’t going to accept you making demands. We both have taken too many liberties.”

Talon paused for a moment. Finally, he resigned. “You’re right. But if he gets in the way, I will not hold back.”

“The Court wouldn’t expect you to,” Dick said, frowning. “But they want Batman dead before anything else.”

“So what did they do to you? Did they say anything noteworthy?”

Dick’s heart began to thump a little. There was another reason why he was afraid that Talon would kill the Waynes. Dick still had unanswered questions. In that moment, Dick knew he should tell Talon the truth behind his capture. The truth about his importance to the Waynes.

“No,” he said instead, after a moment. “Nothing important.”

“I see,” Talon said. He seemed to have questions but he accepted Dick’s answer. He quietly said, “The Court has been talking about you.”

Dick looked at him, did his best to remain composed and not alarmed. The Court could mean good or bad news—never anything in between, and almost always the latter. Considering how solemn Talon seemed, he wasn’t sure what to expect.

“Our failed plan has them worried. They want to make you a Talon as soon as possible. They want you to start your trials.”

“I see,” Dick said. Even though becoming a Talon was his only goal since joining, and the only thing his entire world had revolved around since he was ten—knowing that the trials were now within his grasp suddenly wavered his confidence. He wasn’t sure if he was ready.

He wasn’t sure if he wanted to do it.

“Our training is going to end soon,” Talon said after a moment. Dick looked at him curiously. The Talon seemed to want to say more—but whatever it was, he did not speak it. He revealed too much of himself that night. He said, stiffly, “I hope you’re ready.”

 


	2. White

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After escaping the batcave, Dick is now prepared to take on his trials to become a Talon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for the wait! I've had the chapter finished for awhile but I was very slow in editing it... please forgive me. Although, perhaps this was for the best. I'm still not quite finished with the ending, so perhaps the delay in posting this will have the chapters spread out more evenly. I'm hoping to have the next chapter posted in a week or two.
> 
> A few additional content warnings: references to suicide, forced drug use, mental instability and torture. The rest of the warnings should be nothing new from the first chapter.
> 
> Like the first chapter, this story will begin with a flashback before returning to the present timeline.

Dick was perched in his spot, as instructed. He waited patiently on the firescape overlooking the alleyway. In the distance, he heard a heavy door swing open with sudden force, the hinges screeching, door banging against the brick wall like a clap of thunder.

A man came stumbling into the alleyway, his footsteps loud and clumsy, his breaths and gasps filling the air. In the dim lighting, Dick could catch glimpses of blood dripping down his body, trailing along the ground.

“Please—you can’t do this!”

Dick watched as the man limped closer into position. Dick finally leapt downwards, gracefully, in front of the man’s path. The man, startled at the shadow before him, yelled and fell backwards onto the ground.

“I have served the Court faithfully, _dutifully_ , for years—”he started, and his eyes seemed to register who he was talking to only after Dick had straightened his back and stood fully. “Gray Son—you remember me, don’t you? I housed you a few times.” The man was speaking gently—but when Dick took a step forward, the man dragged himself backwards on the ground by his hands. His gaze was layered with fear. “Do you remember my son, Sal? You were the same age. You played together—”

Dick did remember. It was not too long ago. But they hadn’t played together—Dick still remembered Sal’s judgmental gaze, tinged with the same hint of apprehension as his parents, and how the Owlet had pointedly avoided him during his stay at the family’s home.

“Callisto Fortino. The Court of Owls has sentenced you to die.”

Dick pulled a dagger from his belt. To his surprise, Callisto did not run. Instead, he grabbed Dick by the leg. Dick didn’t flinch, staring down at Callisto’s pleading face, contorted and pathetic. The last stand of a man faced with death. Begging on his knees at the feet of a boy.

“Gray Son. _Child_ , listen to me: you don’t have to do this,” he begged. The hand on Dick’s leg was perspiring so greatly that Dick could feel the heat and sweat of the palm that touched him. “They can’t control you. You don’t have to _kill_. Help me, and I’ll ensure you that we can escape Gotham—”

Dick wasn’t sure if Callisto’s desperation forced him into honesty, or if he was simply good at acting, but for a moment Dick believed him. But while the possibilities outside of Gotham seemed endless, Dick could not think of a single place he would want to go to.

Dick caught something in his peripherals. Yellow eyes in the shadows. Watching. Dick felt almost indignant, knowing that his mentor was watching him.

He had killed before—he hardly needed the supervision.

“Callisto Fortino.  The Court of Owls has sentenced you to die.”

Dick kneeled, grabbing Callisto by his damp hair, and delivered the killing strike in a single stab to the neck—so quick that Callisto didn’t even have a chance to finish uttering his word of protest, the sound dying from his throat. Dick released his grip, Callisto’s body finally collapsed for good. The hand on Dick’s leg slipped—falling to the floor.

Dick stared down at the body that laid at his feet, eyeing the injury that Talon had inflicted earlier before Callisto escaped. The leg was bloodied from the wound, leaving a nasty trail of blood from where he limped while he was running for his life. Running and running.

Looking at it, the dagger in Dick’s hand almost felt merciful.

* * *

 

Dick knew the Owls would never catch him leaving—and if they did, there was nothing that could stop him except to send one of their Talons. By the time they’d notice and get around to summoning a Talon, Dick could be halfway across Gotham in that time.

However, Dick had never attempted an escape—not since he was a boy—simply because he never had any desire or reason to leave. But when the Owls who were housing him were rested in their beds and the moon was high in the sky, he quickly dressed in his uniform and snuck out using the old passageway.

It had taken a lot of sneaking around in the past few weeks to get ahold of the correct address. It was strange to run in the city at night without Talon by his side—but it was also oddly freeing. He could move at his own pace, however fast or slow. There was no pressure or urgency of the Owls’ orders. He tried not to think about the trials and how close he was to becoming a Talon himself. How close he was to running alone every night.

He located the apartment complex. Used the fire escape to climb up to the right floor. He pried open the window carefully, silently entering the space.

His footsteps were slow and soundless as he walked further into the home. He had already visited once before, while the tenant was away, and even in the darkness he still remembered the map of the place. Remembered every creak in the floor and every piece of furniture.

He walked into the bedroom. The TV was still on, flooding the room in blue light, but his target had fallen asleep and was alone. He turned off the TV, not wanting to risk being seen in the light or reflection. He walked to the side of the bed, his eyes attuning to the darkness. He quickly clamped his hand over his target’s mouth.

The person immediately jolted awake but Dick spoke quicker than they could react, “Don’t scream and don’t try to look back. If you do, I have no choice but to kill you. I need you to answer a few questions. I need you to answer honestly or else. Understand?”

Frantic nodding. Dick didn’t remove the hand—she was breathing too erratically, he didn’t trust her not to scream.

“Are you Kelly Johnson?”

More nodding.

“Are you the same Kelly Johnson who worked for social services in Gotham fifteen years ago?”

Nodding, except this time, the breathing began to slow.

“I need you to remember a case you worked on. It was a case involving a boy. His parents worked for Haly’s Circus as trapeze artists. The boy’s parents fell during an accident with the ropes. They made headlines. They died and the boy was placed in your care. Do you remember?”

A single nod. Dick finally let go of her mouth.

“Keep your eyes forward,” Dick said sharply. She stilled. “Tell me what you remember about the case.”

“There’s not much to say,” she said, voice shaky. “He disappeared. We got GCPD involved but—”

“Where was he supposed to go?” Dick cut in.

“He was an orphan. We looked into his family history but he had no family to go to—all of his relatives were dead, overseas, or unrecorded. He was going to go into foster care.”

Dick didn’t say anything. He knew that Bruce was lying to him, was just making things up to earn his trust—but the way he spoke familiarly of him, the way he spoke his name and knew the details of his parents’ deaths, had made Dick second-guess himself. The Bat was more clever than he anticipated—-and Dick was embarrassed by how easily he was tricked.

But then Kelly continued, “There was some talk of him getting adopted by Bruce Wayne, the Gotham billionaire. But we had to check his home first and there was a delay. By the time things started to move forward, the boy had disappeared. They never found him.”

Dick stood still.

“Are you going to rob or hurt me?” she asked quietly.

“No,” Dick said, gaze lowering. “But if you speak word of this to anyone, I’ll find you. And I’ll kill you.”

“I wondered for years about where that boy went. He was in our protection and we failed him,” she said suddenly, despite the fact that Dick was seconds from leaving. Despite that he had just threatened her. Dick couldn’t tell if she was brave or stupid. Still, he paused long enough for her to finish. “I haven’t heard someone else mention him in years. I thought everyone had forgotten.”

She sounded like she wanted to say more, but at that, Dick had to leave.

 

Dick caught shadows moving in the corner of his eye. A smile came to him unbidden.

“Did you come to wish me luck?” he teased.

He continued to attach his bracers. Talon emerged from his hiding spot.

“It’s not about luck,” Talon said. “I just wanted to make sure you weren’t sleeping in.”

“Yeah. Right. You know I can’t sleep,” Dick said. He flexed his arm to test the fit of the bracer.

“Is that why you were out two nights ago?” Talon said quietly.

At that, Dick stopped. He shook his head to himself, decided it was inevitable. The Owls were always watching. He tightened the bracer a little more and attached the mask before turning around.

“How long have you been stalking me?”

“It’s not stalking. It’s keeping my eyes open. With Batman alive, I have to watch the city to make sure _he_ doesn’t have his eyes on _us_. I found you running around,” Talon said. His voice sounded stern. “I’m not sure what I find more ridiculous: you, risking being caught by the Bat again, or disobeying the Owls. You know you’re not allowed out in the city without the Owls’ permission. If they find out what you did—”

“If?” Dick repeated. There was a challenge to his voice as he said, “You didn’t tell them?”

At that, Talon paused for a moment. He confessed, “No. But that’s not what you need to be worried about—”

“And what should I be worried about?” Dick said, a little sharper than he meant to. Talon tilted his head just slightly, the owl mask looking at him. He was getting irritated. Dick could see the tension in his arms. But more than that, he was perplexed.

“Ever since you’ve returned, you’ve been acting strange. Whatever lies that the Waynes have put into your head—rid yourself of them, _now_.” After a moment, Talon finally shook his head, giving up. “It makes no difference. Your first trial is here. When they’re all done and over, I suppose it doesn’t matter what I think. You can do whatever you like.”

Dick’s eyes lowered, the words stinging. Dick knew that Talon wasn’t completely emotionless, but his anger had never felt so personal. He sounded almost bitter and it wasn’t because Dick had messed up in his training. He was upset because Dick was being _curious_. Because he was doing things a good disciple would never do.

But what stung the most was that Talon was incorrect. When the trials were finished, Dick wouldn’t be able to do whatever he wanted. He would only be able to do what the Owls permitted, and Talon would have no control because he would be placed in the electrum stasis.

Talon turned, heading back towards the passageway—likely to return to the Owls, where everyone was awaiting Dick for the first trial. Before he left, he paused.

“Good luck,” he said after all. Then he disappeared.

Dick finished strapping on his weapons—he didn’t want to be weighed down, and if he was too dependent on weapons to win his battle, then he wasn’t fit to be a Talon, so he kept it light. He was allowed to bring anything within reason, as it was a battle and not an assassination, but he stuck with the weapons he felt most comfortable with—throwing knives, daggers, and escrima sticks.

The Owls taught him about the history of the parliament and the circus. How long ago, before there were trapeze artists and magicians and silk dancers, there was Rome. A building dubbed _circus_ for charioteers and gladiators and lion tamers. The circus, a place to entertain the rich and the poor. Though, Dick always wondered about the performers. For all their glory and talent, in the end, they were slaves.

The idea of the Court and their _circus_ champion all seemed to tie into their strange obsession with the Greco-Roman, he supposed—what with their labyrinths and dissected philosophies and electrum. He was led into an area not unlike a hippodrome, with its length and rounded corners, but nowhere near the grand scale that he was taught in his lessons.

At first, the room was so bright it hurt his eyes—what with its white floors and white walls. The entire parliament was in attendance, maybe over two hundred Owls in their best suits and dresses, even bringing their Owlets with them to watch in fascination. Dick thought briefly of the circus, how the richest had the closest seats—at ground level. The poor had to sit at the highest seats. Here, all of the Owls sat equally—and yet, they still sat at a level above him, and it still felt imposing.

Dick stepped forward, waiting. From the door, a few moments later, a figure entered—footsteps echoing in the space.

He also wore a half mask. From the looks of it, he seemed about Dick’s age. They were similar in height but Dick was larger in build.

He wasn’t a Talon. He was another disciple. His flesh still had color and life. At one point, this disciple must have had parents who he eventually lost, had grown up in a circus, had shown achievement and promise, before finally being taken into the parliament.

Dick knew this all without even knowing his name, because it was the case for any Talon and any disciple hoping to become a Talon. Had the circumstances been different, they might have fought side by side, instead of against each other. Had the circumstances been different, maybe they would have exchanged performance tips.

“I’m glad to have the honor of facing the Gray Son of Gotham. I can’t wait to hand your blood to the parliament,” the man spoke, to Dick’s surprise.

A talker. It was a bit of a surprise but then again, Dick supposed at one point, this man _was_ an entertainer. They all were.

“I guess I’m pretty famous,” Dick said.

“Everyone in the parliament knows about the Gray Son of Gotham,” he said simply.

The parliament was still relatively new—but the Court had expanded to around the world, its factions growing. Dick caught a trace of accent in the man’s voice and had to wonder where he was sent from—which could have been from any place that the parliament had ties, but certainly not Haly’s since they seemed to be the same age. He’d remember a voice like that.

“What troupe are you from?”

“ _Cirque Sensationnel_.”

At the name, Dick smirked a little, a distant memory coming to him.

 _You mean that hoity-toity circus with the dead looking clowns_? John would joke, every time the European circus tried to come to Gotham and compete with Haly’s.

Before either of them could say another word, the head of the parliament stood. She announced their terms—a battle to the death, just like the circuses of old. Dick knew all the rules—there weren’t many—so as she spoke, he kept his gaze fixated on Talon, who stood silently in the shadows. Looking at him, Dick suddenly felt a surge of confidence.

He could do this. He was trained for this.

Everything was a blur when the grandmaster announced the start of the battle. In a few swift movements, the _Cirque Sensationnel_ performer had pulled a weapon from his back. Dick wasn’t expecting the line of black that suddenly came flying in his direction—he just barely managed to roll out of the way. Dick’s eyes followed the line back to the person. It was a whip.

Dick decided it has to have had some sort of sentimental value. A whip was too loud for him to have trained with it as a disciple. He had specially saved it for this battle, much in the same way Dick carried his escrima sticks even though he would almost never bring it with him on an assassination.

“I didn't realize _Cirque Sensationnel_ had impalement arts,” Dick said out loud, dodging another swing.

“They don’t,” he said—and sure enough, Dick began to notice it a second too late—his opponent already pivoted himself on the ground. “I was a fire dancer.”

In an easy motion, the whip was already circling back towards him. He tried to move out of the way in time but the lash was too well executed and timed, striking him between the shoulder and collarbone. Dick gritted his teeth, would never been able to mask his pain with silence if it hadn’t been for his strict discipline. A single strike from the whip cut past his enforced armor and into his skin. But just as easily as it struck, it was whirling back again, and Dick couldn’t afford a moment to lament his wound and the blood pouring from it. He quickly moved out of the way.

The sound of the whip against the ground made a thunderous _crack_ sound. What followed were light gasps, somewhere far above him—Dick wasn’t paying too close attention. He was starting to wonder, especially with this level of showmanship, if he had been wrong to come to the fight with so little.

He tried to use his throwing knives but they were easily deflected or danced around, the weapon never losing its momentum, seeming to almost swing faster and faster. He tried to find an opening to get in close, like jumping into the middle of the deadliest game of double-dutch, to no avail.

Dick didn’t want to imagine what this battle would be like if the thing was actually lit on fire.

He spent more time dodging than fighting, trying to get a good opening. It was no way to fight. But he kept strategizing the entire time, his eyes focusing on the rhythm of the movements.

They didn’t have fire dancing at Haly’s—but Dick learned in his time as a performer that every performance had to be intentional. Even a mistake had to be disguised as being on purpose. So Dick watched the movements of the whip, tried to sense where the man would normally make his break. Where the beats of his movements from 1-2-3-4 restarted back into 1.

He spotted it. He kept running, kept dodging with acrobatic ease, waiting for it again. It did. He had him.

When the man spun the whip to build up its momentum again, there was a moment where it was just a few seconds too slow. In that moment, Dick tossed one of his throwing knives—it didn’t strike the man, but it threw off his balance just enough. The whip had slowed down significantly.

Dick grabbed onto the whip and tugged on it harder, throwing off the man’s balance.

Dick quickly dove in with a dagger, ready to stab the man. It was going to be quick. Effortless. Done. Just like Talon had taught him.

But the disciple fought back, knocking the dagger out of Dick’s hand. He raised his hand that was still grabbing onto the whip—but Dick had closed in much too close. Just as the dancer had pulled back his arm to throw the whip again, Dick grabbed onto it, looping it around the man’s neck.

The movement pulled them back onto the ground, Dick grunting as he landed on his back. His hand was still wrapped onto the cord, pulling the man on top of him. But Dick didn’t relent, even as the blunt pain drove up his spine. He locked the man in with his legs, kept both hands on the whip that had curled around his enemy’s neck, and tightened his grip.

It was a battle of strength—the man struggling to break the hold, bucking in Dick’s grip, hands pulling at the cord strangling his neck. Dick could feel himself breaking a sweat, gritting his teeth as he bore the beating of the man who was doing everything in his power to fight him off. Elbows hitting him, hands trying to claw at his clenched fists, feet kicking him, weight slamming him into the ground.

Dick was losing his breath. His arms were strained to the point where he could feel them aching. But his enemy was weakening too.

It probably felt longer than it actually lasted. But in that tiny fraction of time, Dick could feel every ounce of the performer’s struggle to hold on. Down to the very last breath. And then everything stilled.

It was a circus. But there was no applause at the end.

 

Dick didn’t sleep at all when he returned. Even though his body was burning with exhaustion and he wanted nothing more than to sleep, he was haunted by what he had done.

He had killed before, and the truth was that he had become numb to it. And he knew, going into the trials, that he would have to kill a disciple. Someone like him.

What disturbed him were the Owls. They may not have cheered, but he could hear their gasps. Hear them whispering heatedly to one another, excited by their battle. Excited in the death of the disciple. What disturbed him was that this disciple, like him, was orphaned with no one but the parliament—and even they would not mourn his death.

More than that, Dick knew he felt this way because his head was already filled with doubts.

He was sneaking out at night, more cautious now. He knew that Talon could be watching at any given time. It took longer than he expected to find them—he guessed that they must have been trying to be cautious too. But he caught them on a rooftop one evening and managed to sneak in close to swipe something from the pup’s belt, but at that point he had been spotted.

“You—”Damian said with a growl, starting forward, but Bruce grabbed him by the back of his hood, stopping him.

Dick stopped and examined the device—the grappling gun, from what Dick understood, which allowed them to swing across the city. Allowed them to fly. He tried to see how it worked but there were more buttons than he expected. He gave up trying to figure it out. He looked up at Bruce and Damian, who were both staring curiously at him.

“I want to know what you meant when you said that they took me,” Dick said. Bruce frowned. Dick slowly approached, ignoring Damian’s glare. He handed the gun back. Damian regarded him for a moment before quickly snatching it back.

“Your parents were killed. There was an acid on the ropes,” Bruce answered.

“I know,” Dick said. “It was Tony Zucco that placed it there. He wanted to use the territory for the Falcone crime family.”

“The person who named Tony Zucco was C.C. Haly, the owner of the circus. Tony Zucco threatened him directly.”

Dick knew that too. “What’s your point?”

“Haly is working for the Court of Owls,” Bruce said.

Dick’s eyes narrowed. Mr. Haly was like the father of the circus. In ways, he had been like a second father to Dick—or, perhaps more accurately, like the grandfather he never met. The Halys and the Grayson bloodlines had always been intertwined—the first owner, Nathaniel Haly, had helped raise Dick’s grandfather, who was an orphan. John the First had been raised alongside C.C. Haly, almost like brothers. John eventually left and travelled with a troupe in Europe, but when he and his spouse passed away, Mr. Haly took in John Giovanni, Dick’s father.

Mr. Haly was a warm and funny man, one of the best people Dick had met—nothing like the cold and unfeeling Owls.

“And what? You think he planned my parents’ deaths?”

“Planned it? Perhaps not. He could have told the Owls that Zucco was threatening him. The Owls could have taken advantage of that. The Owls always take orphans from the circus—that’s their tradition. It all seems awfully convenient that your parents died around the same age that they like to take in their orphans.”

Dick thought about it. The Gray Son of Gotham. Talon said that he had been waiting for him. Could it have been planned after all?

“Where’s your proof?” Dick had to ask.

Bruce pointed at his face. Dick stared down the finger, frowning.

“The electrum tooth.”

Dick froze. “How do you know about that?”

“I think they might have placed it inside of you, when you were a child.”

“I’d know if they did. The electrum tooth involves removing the crown. I doubt I’d have a tooth removed and not remember or _feel_ it—”

“The electrum tooth kills the root of the tooth, and so the best time to install the electrum tooth is before the adult teeth start to grow in. It’s part of the many reasons why Owls bring in children. When you disappeared, all records disappeared with you—including medical and dental records. But at the Cave, I can do tests to see if the electrum tooth is in there.” In a low voice, Bruce added, “I could also remove it.”

Damian, who had been standing by listening, immediately spoke up, “Father, this is ridiculous. We don’t need to be helping him. He already had his chance.”

“That is true. But I’m willing to make a deal.”

Dick frowned at that. “What’s the catch?”

“I want information on the Owls. Tell me and I’ll conduct the test, which will have the answers to the questions you’ve been asking.”

“What information? You’ll have to be more specific.”

“Ideally, their plans. Their numbers. Where to find them.”

“I can’t do that,” Dick said. He couldn’t—he had already come too far. If the Owls found out he was there, talking to Batman, they could send Talon for his head. But everything that Bruce told him put a feeling of fear in his mind. Something was certain—he didn’t know nearly as much about the Owls as he would like to, and he needed to know if there was any truth to Batman’s claims. “I can tell you about their history.”

Bruce’s face was stoic but he was quiet. He was considering the deal. “Fine. But I can’t take you to the Cave while you’re conscious.”

“Forget it then. I’m not letting you _tranq_ me again.”

Bruce frowned, unwilling to compromise on this. Damian shrugged. “Cut off his senses. Use earplugs to cut off his hearing, stick a bag over his head so he can’t see and stifle his sense of smell.” After a moment of thought, he added, “And take his weapons.”

Bruce considered this. He seemed to be unable to think of any objection. They both looked at Dick, waiting for his answer.

Dick’s eyes narrowed.

 

They yanked the black bag off of his head. The artificial lights of the Cave hurt his eyes. He felt the binds around his hands release and he immediately pulled out the earplugs. Everything appeared clear again. He pulled off his mask and fixed his hair—breathing inside of the confines of the bag had made him sweat, as much as he had tried to still his breathing. The drive to the Cave had been much longer than he expected, though he imagined that they had driven a longer route to increase his confusion and ruin his sense of direction.

The butler seemed perplexed by his arrival but didn’t oppose, though Dick could sense the wariness in his eyes. He conducted most of the tests, including the x-rays. As Bruce and Pennyworth worked on the results, Dick waited in the Cave, wandering around.

He immediately stopped by the giant tyrannosaurus. He had spotted it from the glass in his cell but didn’t get to see it up close. It brought back a sudden memory of when he and his parents visited a museum in Chicago during one of the stops on their tour. The tyrannosaurus rex skeleton had fuelled Dick’s dinosaur obsession as a kid, although he was always more interested in pterodactyls.

He paused for a moment, the memory lingering in his mind, and he realized he hadn’t thought of that day in a long time.

Meanwhile, Damian had been watching him suspiciously, keeping a hawk’s eye on him.

“Why the dinosaur?” Dick asked him, even though he was sure that Damian was just waiting for an excuse to fight him. Or maybe even kill him.

“Hell if I know. It was here before me.”

“How long have you been here?” Dick asked. Damian’s eyes narrowed, trying to spot the trick. Dick elaborated, “You mentioned the League of Assassins. That’s where your sword is from too—it has the demon’s head on it. The Court teaches us about them. The League of Assassins, the Brotherhood of Evil, H.I.V.E., all of the organizations. But you left. Why?”

“Because my father is here.”

“Is it better living with your father?”

Damian eyed him cautiously. He still didn’t trust him—admittedly, he had no reason to, but Dick wasn’t trying to deceive him. He was just trying to understand. Damian said anyways, “Yes, in ways.”

“Did you not enjoy killing people?”

There was a shift in Damian’s eyes. He found Dick’s question to be strange—possibly concerning. Dick was simply thinking of Calvin Rose, the disciple who ran away during his third trial—when he was assigned to kill a family. Dick had already killed a family, long before he had ever become a disciple. He had killed several times since—it was part of Talon’s deal with the Court, that he would be allowed to avenge Dick’s fallen parents and train Dick personally, so long as they executed the Court’s orders from then on, transforming Dick into an assassin much earlier than the rest of the disciples.

“Do you?” Damian asked.

“I’ve never thought about it,” Dick said after a moment. “I just did it.”

“Same,” Damian said.

“Then why did you leave?”

“Choice,” Damian said at once. “I could kill people. Some days I still find it preferable, especially when it involves people in owl masks and their mouthy subordinates, but in the League, I didn’t have the option to spare anyone. The League of Assassins isn’t necessarily evil—they believe in good but they want to do it by establishing dominance. They want to take over the world and kill anyone who opposes in the hopes of establishing order. But that doesn’t make a world _good_ , it just forces people to _pretend_ to be good. Here, it doesn’t work that way. People can do bad things but the solution isn’t to execute them. Perhaps killing them would be more sparing than throwing them in a prison or an asylum for life, but the bottom line is that it embraces the good and the bad. It embraces people that are neither completely good or completely bad. The ones who are—”

“Gray,” Dick finished for him. Damian looked at him, confused, but Dick didn't feel like explaining his word choice.

“I suppose that’s one way to put it,” Damian said. He shifted in place, looking uncomfortable. He finally said, “When I left the League of Assassins, I had to put everything behind me. My way of life. My way of thinking. My family. It wasn’t easy when I came here. I felt lost. Confused. It was hard to rid myself of the things that made me who I was. But I don’t regret it. If I had stayed, with all of those doubts in my mind, it would have destroyed me. It was risky but I can rest easy knowing that I made a decision—it makes my path feel truer.”

“Are you telling me I should leave the Court?”

“I’m not telling you anything,” Damian said at once, sounding almost annoyed at the insinuation. “I’m saying that whatever you do decide on, you better be damned sure of it. I don’t know what your flock of birds are like, but you can’t survive as an assassin unless you’re sure of what you’re doing. You can’t shoot a crooked arrow or swing around a sword half-assed. You can’t have _doubt_.”

Dick considered the words. Damian was right. Before, being a disciple was easy. He had never questioned or second guessed his path. Now, he was unbearably uncertain all of the time. He had questions that he couldn’t keep ignoring.

He wanted to go back to a time before all of this. A time where he never thought about right or wrong, good or bad, black or white. A time where he barely thought at all.

Still, Dick didn’t let Damian know how deep his words were affecting him. He smirked a little, saying, “Do you _want_ me to stay here?”

“ _Tt_. Do you really want me to answer that? I suppose if you stayed in the cell, it’d make no difference to me.”

“I’d only stay if I could sleep in your room.”

Damian’s face turned a little red. Still, grumbling, he said, “I’d sooner sleep in the cell myself.”

Bruce returned with the results. When Dick looked at him expectantly, Bruce just gave him a stern look. “I need you to follow up on your promise first. So I have a few questions: the first is the nursery rhyme. What exactly does it mean?”

“It’s our phrase.”

“No. I meant everything in it. _Beware the Court of Owls, that watches all the time; Ruling Gotham from a shadowed perch, behind granite and lime; They watch you at your hearth, they watch you in your bed; Speak not a whispered word about them, or they'll send the Talon for your head_. The Court of Owls are real, and the Talon mentioned is a real person. That must mean there are other truths in it.”

“What do you want to know?”

“All of it. There are parts I can guess— _watches all the time_ , meaning the duration of the Court of Owls and their existence throughout Gotham’s history. And _ruling Gotham from a shadowed perch_ —is it meant literally? Or are the Owls associated with how Gotham is run?”

“Both,” Dick said simply. Bruce’s eyes narrowed. Damian and Pennyworth, who were also listening in, stared at Dick expectantly. “ _Behind granite and lime_. Granite and limestone, the same materials that built up Gotham, particularly the buildings of Old Gotham. The same area where the federal plaza and police station are—but it goes much further than that.”

Dick’s explanation only increased the confusion in the room. Dick was worried he was saying too much—but he saw the file in Bruce’s hand. He wanted it.

“The Court of Owls built Gotham. They have passageways throughout the city, particularly the older buildings. The Court of Owls listens. They know everything. The secrets of politicians, the rich and the elite, everything. It’s how they operate.”

At that, the Bat trio glanced at each other, a look of understanding passing between them.

“You have to show us,” Bruce said at once. Dick stepped back, glowering.

“No,” he said, feeling insulted. “I’ve been dragged all the way here and answered your questions. I only need you to answer mine.”

“Only if you show us.”

“You don’t understand. The pathways are long and tedious. They’re hidden in the dark. Even if I did show you, you would never be able to navigate it without the proper training. You’d be caught by the Owls in an instant, or worse, risk entering the labyrinth.”

“The labyrinth?”

Dick sighed a little. He talked anyways, “The labyrinth. All disciples must survive the labyrinth in order to become a Talon, but the Court has used the labyrinth as a torture device in the past. By the time a person is let out of the labyrinth, _if_ they're let out, they often don't return with their sanity. Only one person is known to have escaped it.”

Damian seemed curious about this bit of news. “How the hell did they manage to hide an entire labyrinth in Gotham?”

“Have you been inside of it? How large is it?” Bruce asked.

Dick shook his head. “I haven’t explored it. Not yet, anyways. I will during my trials.”

“Do you have a name, then? For the person who did escape?”

“I do. But I’m going to need that file.”

“I need real information. I have no reason to keep this withheld from you but you have every reason to lie to get what you want,” Bruce said, an edge to his voice.

“You’ve already lied before,” Damian added.

At this point, Dick was frustrated and impatient.

“His name is Calvin Rose. Good luck finding him. The Owls have made him paranoid and he’s an escape artist besides. Now give me the file.”

Bruce looked at him long and hard. He finally handed over the file. Dick opened it up right away, examining the x-rays and the readings. His eyes narrowed as he took in the information, mind slipping towards confusion. He didn’t understand what he was reading—rather, he didn’t believe it.

“You forged it,” he decided. Damian suddenly snatched the file out of his hands, also taking a look at the contents. He shook his head, scoffing.

“How _brainwashed_ do you have to be?”

“It wasn’t forged,” Bruce said. “You really do have the electrum tooth.”

“This still isn’t proof,” Dick said. “They could have just as easily installed the tooth after I was recruited.”

“Why did you come here, then? If you really believed that, what would it matter? Regardless, they put a _switch_ inside of you without you knowing about it,” Bruce said. In a lower voice, he added, “What if they did install it inside of you as a child? What if they knew your parents were going to die and they _let_ it happen?”

“Tony Zucco killed my parents. No one else,” Dick snapped. “And if anyone else did, I would have killed them just the same.”

“No, you wouldn't have,” Bruce said. “You were just a child. You were vulnerable in your grief and the Owls took advantage of that.”

“I made my own choices—”

“They used your parents’ death to use _you_ —”

“Don't act like I don't know your story!” Dick said, stepping forward. Damian's eyes flickered in his direction, looking prepared to pounce in, but Bruce remained unflinching. “Everyone knows the story of Bruce Wayne and his dead parents in Crime Alley! When you saw my parents fall from the ceiling, you didn't want some child to foster. You wanted to stop feeling powerless for what happened to you through the form of _charity_. You're Gotham’s _elite_ —you don't empathize, you _pity_.”

“I wouldn't have made you a killer—”

“You don't have _any_ power over who I am—”

“They tricked you and they used you, for their prophecy. For the Gray Son of Gotham.”

At that, Dick stopped. This was twice now that Bruce had mentioned information that he had no business of knowing. “How do you know about that?”

“I heard it, from Lincoln March, before the Court killed him.”

Dick should have known. Lincoln March was how they discovered Bruce Wayne was Batman—and how Batman had discovered the Court of Owls. March insisted to the Court that he was Bruce Wayne’s long lost brother—a theory that no one was sure about, but a fact that Talon had revelled in when he killed him.

After March’s failure, Batman had been interfering in the Court’s plans ever since—driving the Court to form the parliament. It was an event that changed the Court, and it appeared that even the deceased, traitorous March knew more than Dick did.

“Take me back,” Dick said at once. He had heard enough.

“Do you want the bag or do you want to jump over the waterfall again?” Damian said.

“Take me back, whichever way. I don't care.”

They eventually returned to the batmobile. When it came time to blindfold Dick, Bruce paused with a serious expression.

“Just promise me you'll think about what I said.”

Dick didn't answer. He glanced past Bruce, where Damian was standing. When they locked eyes, Damian said simply, “You can't have doubt.”

The bag slipped on and everything went black.

 

Dick was well rested when the Court came to fetch him for his second trial.

Dick trailed behind the Owls to walk side by side with Talon. The second trial was the most dreaded of all his tasks—and knowing so, Dick really wished Talon could have led him on his own. He wasn't sure if he'd be the same person when he returned— _if_ he returned—and it would have been nice to share some privacy with Talon before going in.

As they got closer to their destination, Dick spoke anyways, “Wish me luck.”

“I can’t wish you luck on this one, Gray Son,” Talon said, speaking low enough to where the Owl in front of them did not seem to be aware of them speaking. “The only thing I can tell you is that, whatever you see in there, just remember that it’s not real.”

“There’s nothing in there but me,” Dick said. That was how he understood it—but Talon’s reluctance to answer seemed to suggest that there was something deeper to this. Dick thought about the stories of people losing their sanity in the labyrinth and hoped his resolve was strong enough.

Although it was hard to be confident when his head was filled with so many doubts. He thought of the x-ray of the electrum tooth and pushed his tongue against the spot without thinking about it.

They led him to the doors. When the doors opened up, the bright light coming from the interior momentarily blinded him.

“In three days, we will come get you—unless you can escape on your own,” an Owl told him. “If you survive the three days and maintain your sanity, we will prepare your third trial.”

The Owl handed him a dagger that he had never seen before—long and hooked with an ivory hilt in the shape of a owl. Dick looked at it and took it, despite his confusion.

“Am I going to be fighting?”

“No. This one is for yourself,” the Owl said. He reminded him, “Three days.”

Dick looked closer at the instrument. He imagined driving it into his own gut, imagined how easy the curved blade would be able cut himself out. He wanted to throw it away right then and there but he knew it’d be expected of him to take it, and so he did. He couldn’t argue with the Owls’ cherished traditions.

He stepped through the doors, the polished white floors beneath him, the vast space echoing with each step he took. There was the faint sound of running water. Dick turned his head towards a great fountain—water flowing from the statue of a giant white owl. His eyes followed the statue upwards, the white walls so high that it hurt to angle his head to see it.

The doors slid shut with a loud noise. It looked like just another panel in the wall, with no handle to mark it, the white perfectly blending into the white. There was no way of opening it from inside of the labyrinth. There were no clocks to tell him the time, nothing to distract him from boredom.

Only one person had ever escaped the labyrinth. With no food to fill him, Dick’s strategy was to conserve his energy for the entirety of the three days instead of trying to escape. He sat on the floor, back against the wall, and waited.

 

He awoke with a bad crick in his neck and a dull ache in his lower back. He opened his eyes, the bright lights stinging him. He groaned a little.

He just wished someone would turn down the lights.

His mouth felt dry. So dry. He picked himself up, feeling the grogginess in his body. He forced himself to stretch first before going over to the fountain. The rushing water in the otherwise silent space was strangely comforting. He removed his bracers and gloves, drinking from the water.

That single sip from his hands helped quench a thirst he didn't realize he had. He drank more, almost greedily, but the water only helped remind him of the dull hunger beginning to form. He stopped, glancing around, but there was nothing to look at aside from the statue. He had no way of knowing how many or how few hours had passed but he knew he could survive three days without food, so long as he had water.

He idly placed his hand in the fountain, the cool sensation on his hands was oddly relaxing. Bored, he moved his hand in the water, tracing patterns across the surface. His mind drifted aimlessly. He heard a voice, gentle, in the back of his mind. His mother’s voice.

 _Dick, do you want to feed the ducks_? she asked. His mind continued to wander backwards. He remembered a sun shining in a park. A pond and the sounds of frogs and crickets. He remembered moving towards the water.

 _Whoa there, buddy_ , a voice said, warm and laughing. A little louder, a little clearer.

He was picked up, his entire world spinning around him, spinning and spinning until he was faced with his grinning father. _Don’t get too close to the water_.

His voice sounded close. Dick thought he saw something in the reflection of the water. Everything began to blur.

“Don’t get too close to the water.”

Dick turned and looked, face to face with his dead father, exactly as he remembered seeing him last—face white, neck twisted, blood crusted over his ear, face and neck, skull split.

Dick jumped back, heart leaping out of his chest, arm swinging out of the fountain and splashing up water at the ghost. John was gone.

Dick blinked, the lights still hurting his eyes. He breathed, tried to slow himself down. Tried to calm down. He heard the sounds of the rushing water and tried to relax. He reminded himself of what Talon had told him, that what he saw wasn’t really there. But with his heart racing, and his bearings slipping away from him, it was getting hard to think.

 

Dick tried to stay away from the water, not wanting to revisit his episode from earlier. He tried sticking to his plan, staying still. But sleeping and sitting on the rigid floor caused him aches and pains and standing was just as tiresome. He spent time pacing and exercising in the room, but with no clock, it was difficult to time how many minutes he spent relaxing or doing other things.

The hunger was stabbing into him, deeper and deeper, digging a hole into his stomach. He couldn’t keep ignoring it.

He was too hungry for the water to fill him but it helped him to pretend. Pretend that he was consuming something filling. He braved the trek back to the fountain, though as soon as he drank, he left the area immediately and returned to his corner.

Boredom overcame him. He attempted to sleep again but as he sat down and turned to lay, his father’s corpse was laying next to him.

Dick immediately scrambled back on his feet, the fear hitting him just as hard as it did the first time, cold sweat immediately breaking out on his skin. His frantic breathing echoed around the room, his eyes darting in different directions. There had to be a trick. Something in the lights. He tried to calm down—it wasn’t real.

But while that may have been true, his dread was very, _very_ real.

Every alarm in his head was going off at once, adrenaline crushing his heart, his well-honed instinct pushing him to run.

He turned, hearing a crunch underneath his foot. He looked down, a dead bird, its bones crushed beneath his boot. He looked behind him, eyes travelling the trail of dead birds up to a mountain of carcasses before him.

He blinked and it was gone.

Dick couldn’t think to explain it. But there was something bad in the water, he reasoned. Something making him see things. Or maybe those damned lights. His plan had failed, he had to get out of the labyrinth.

He needed to escape.

 

He ignored the hunger. The pain. He kept walking, briskly, desperately, through the shadowed paths of the labyrinth. In the beginning he had stumbled into walls but over time, his eyes adjusted to the dark. He began to rely on the senses that Talon had taught him, though all of his thoughts and memories had begun to blur. He was losing his sense of purpose. He just knew he needed to escape. Needed to run. He tried to find the exit, walking blind and lost through the pathways.

_Beware the Court of Owls, that watches all the time._

His mind scraped some logic together, enough for him to think and try to recognize a pattern. Tried to see what was missing, what was different, tried to feel the grooves in the wall. But the shadows were dark, everything was dark, everything was black, and the walls were smooth and cold and indifferent. It became harder to think. His sense of direction was gone. He was lost in every sense of the word.

_Ruling Gotham from a shadowed perch, behind granite and lime._

It was so dark he couldn’t see the ceiling—but Dick still felt like there was something watching him. He had this feeling, in the pit of his stomach, that he was being watched. As he continued to stare upwards, he thought he saw white—white that extended into the ceiling and distorted into the face of owls, elongated and moving, watching his every step. He was imagining it, he reasoned. There was no white here, only black. But they whispered to him. He tried to shut it out the best he could.

_They watch you at your hearth, they watch you in your bed._

He turned around a corner, freezing in fear when the hallway was enriched with light, and he was face to face with Talon. His Talon. It was the only image he had seen that wasn’t distorted or frightening. He was so convinced that it was real—and he felt like a child again, reunited with the only thing, the only one, that made sense in his life.

His only constant.

Talon had come to save him again, Dick realized. He moved forward, the Talon standing and watching, unmoving. But with every step, Dick became aware that he was walking on some kind of slope. The entire hall seemed to teeter, his vision spinning. He finally looked down, realized with horror that he was walking in blood. Blood piled past his ankles, his knees to his waist. He looked back up, Talon was walking towards him. He pulled out a dagger from his waist. Dick couldn’t see it but he knew. He knew that it was the same one that they had held together as they slit Sonia Zucco’s throat.

_Say the words._

He started to back away.

_Richard John Grayson, the Court has sentenced you to die._

The Court knew. The Court knew that he had told the Bat about the passageways. About his betrayal. It was all a trick. A trap. They wanted him _dead_. They all wanted him dead.

_Speak not a whispered word about them, or they'll send the Talon for your head._

Talon charged.

Dick’s instinct was to run. He turned back around the corner he came, the blood dragging down his steps, splashing up around, splattering the white walls. When he turned back the other way, the shadows had returned. The blood clipped into the moving shadows, the darkness. A creature stepped forward—Batman, Dick thought. But he was wrong somehow. The points of his cowl were elongated, the shadows of them extending toward the dark ceiling, eyes blood red. As he stepped closer, the shadows shifted, encasing his face until all Dick could see in the darkness were those red eyes and long fangs. The cape spread, turning into bat wings, thousands of bats flying in his direction.

Dick backed up when the shadows flew towards him, bumping into the corner, and the visions vanished.

He stayed in the corner for a moment, closing his eyes, willing it all away. He became aware of the exhaustion in his body. How long had he been walking?

How much time had passed?

Seeing no other choice, he opened his eyes and continued again.

His body started to feel heavy. Heavier and heavier with every step. He travelled down a long path, slowly. He felt the fatigue, weariness, in his eyes and limbs. His energy was spent. The hunger returned.

But his body felt more grounded now. He was beginning to wonder if the effects were wearing off—but then he heard a child’s laughter. An image brushed past him, running. Dick looked up, saw a boy he did not recognize, with chestnut hair and light eyes.

The boy grinned at him, dressed in old circus attire.

“Talon?” he guessed. But he had never seen images of Talon in his past life, had barely even seen his face except in rare glimpses. The boy took off, even cartwheeled, his laugh echoing and fading.

Despite his better judgement, Dick followed the apparition. Around the corner, the boy was gone. He was replaced with someone else. The new boy backed up, looking at him, his blue eyes staring at him. Dick saw the attire he wore and blinked. They were his family’s colors. Flying Grayson colors. But the boy was not his father, though he was familiar. The boy took off and Dick followed again.

It repeated. A new corner. A new boy. But this one he recognized—blue eyes, dark hair, olive complexion.

“Dad,” he said. He didn’t recognize his own voice, it was too raspy. It hurt to talk.

When the boy ran off, Dick simply stopped and watched him, his eyes following him until he disappeared. Then he moved to follow.

A new pathway. The lights were dimmed. Dick watched the boy in the center of the hallway, who simply stood, looking back at him. Dick watched his younger self for a moment before moving forward. His younger self simply stood and stared, unsmiling. Dick’s brow furrowed a little at the image of himself, taking in the golden-amber that washed out the separation between iris and sclera, the black pupils blown wide, head turning, neck twisting at impossible angles as it tracked Dick. Dick stared back, unsure of what to say, waiting for his illusion to vanish or change. But nothing.

At the end of the pathway, the space opened up. He heard the faint sound of rushing water.

He stopped and stared at the vast open space, taking in the view of the tiles and the owl fountain, and realized he had returned to where he started.

 

The visions were growing longer, with only brief moments of rationality interspersed. When he wasn’t terrified that something was chasing him or the ground was ready to swallow him up, he was reduced to his most basic instincts. He was hungry. He was thirsty. He was sick. He was tired.

And in the tiny moments where he could _think_ , he would calm himself down. That he could do this. That he had to remember his mission. That it was only _three days_. But then the visions would resume, or the hunger would overtake him, until it was all he could focus on. He focused less on the inevitable fact that he would be free, and more on the need to _escape_ , and when it felt that there was no escape and his darkest horrors overtook him, the impulse to drive the owl dagger into his core only became that much more tempting.

Dick wasn’t sure when it was. But at some point, he had given up on exploring the labyrinth. He was collapsed near the fountain. His skin felt hot and his stomach gutted. He told himself that he should drink. That he was thirsty, hungry, that water would make it better. And there were fractions of his sanity in the back of his mind that reminded him that only bad things happened in the water.

It didn’t matter. He was too weak to drink anyways. He dipped his hand in the water but his hands were shaking, all of the water spilling between his fingers. A sudden anger bloomed from the numbness, surging him with a sudden energy. He slapped the water, felt it spray in his face but ignored it. When the water settled, he looked in it—for the first time, truly.

He saw himself. Reddened scleras and dark circles beneath his eyes. He thought to himself that this couldn’t be him, that it was just another vision.

He used his arms on the platform to push himself up. He staggered to his feet, the room spinning once he stood, but he kept his balance… at the very least, he could still keep his balance…

He glanced up at the statue of the owl at the end of the fountain. He walked alongside the edge of the fountain, reaching the base of the statue. Looking up its monumental side, it hardly looked like an owl anymore. Just pure white stone.

He glanced over the edges of the statue. Staring at the grooves between the feathers of its wings, he began to climb.

He wasn’t sure why. Part of him felt like had had run out of places to look for an exit. Another part of him thought that maybe he could find a way to shut the damn lights off. And part of him just really wanted to climb something, because he was sick of walking that damn labyrinth and being on the ground. The higher he got, the harder it became to continue hauling his weight. The slope of the statue was now too steep and he had to balance his weight on the tips of his toes and hold on with his aching fingers. His fatigue was getting to him—but he didn’t dare to give up or look down.

When he reached the top of the wing, he mapped out the rest of his way up to the top. If he could wrap around the neck, in the groove between its head and its tuft of feathers, he could make it to the beak and haul himself up the rest of the way.

But when he tried to step up, he slipped.

He tried to catch himself on the owl’s chest but it only served to stagger his fall. He kept going—falling, falling, and it all happened so quick.

He was going to land in the fountain—but the water was too shallow.

With the realization of what was to happen, his instincts kicked in, and he covered his head as he plummeted several feet onto the hard ground. The shallow water didn’t break his fall—he slapped against the surface, the side of his body striking against ground, a shock going through his shoulder, back and hip, his brain rattling, and the last thing he remembered was red swimming in the water with him.

 

He was still bleeding when he was was suddenly yanked by his arm. His eyes blinked furiously. He forgot where he was, the water confusing him. He accidentally breathed in some of the water and started sputtering, not sure why he was unable to breathe. His head and shoulder were throbbing, water pouring down from his bangs. And something had a hold of him—was _grabbing_ him and _dragging_ him.

He watched his legs, as weak and lifeless as a ragdoll’s dangling limbs, with heavy eyes as he was pulled across the fountain. Heavy footsteps behind him, splashing up water. The sound felt intense inside of Dick’s head—like waves crashing. He was vaguely aware of voices behind him but couldn’t make out what they were saying.

He was dragged over the platform of the fountain. His clothing was soaked.

“Careful,” Dick made out, in a voice he didn’t quite recognize.

When he was laid down, two indistinguishable faces looked down at him. Dick’s eyes widened, finding them horrifying, and he moved to get up but the best he could do was wave an arm. One of the strangers, like a dark and menacing shadow, caught his wrist.

“What’s wrong with him?” a voice said. It sounded wrong. Blurry. Almost like an echo.

“Look at his eyes. They injected him with some kind of hallucinatory. We need to get him out of here, now.”

“No,” Dick managed to say, and he tried to pull his hand away, but was stunned in terror when the shadow suddenly grew. The shadow extending, satanic horns protruding from its head.

“Dick, listen to me,” a voice echoed. “We’re going to help you escape.”

There was no escape.

Dick managed to yank his arm away, got to his feet—but a pain shot from his side to his hip, and he didn’t predict it nor had the strength to stop it. He collapsed—but was caught.

“I hear something,” a voice whispered harshly.

“They know we’re here. We have to leave now.”

Dick’s eyes were on the ground. His vision was focusing in and out. He stared, fixated, as water and blood droplets fell onto the ground.

That’s right.

He tried to climb the owl. He fell in the fountain. He landed on his side. His ear was cut and he bit the inside of his cheek. This was his blood.

He looked up. He was still near the fountain. The owl was over there. And ahead of him was the labyrinth.

There was a loud sound. He had heard it before, when he first entered the labyrinth. The doors. Sudden shouting.

“Damnit,” a voice growled, close to Dick’s ear. Batman.

A subtle noise in the distance, what sounded like faint metal.

“I’ll distract him.” The pup.

“I already gave you your orders,” Batman said sharply. “Take him. Get him out of here.”

“I—”

“Now is not the time to argue with me— _urgh_!”

Dick was dragged to the ground with Bruce. Dick glanced over Bruce’s head, saw the knife flying through the air. There was a sweep of black over Dick’s head. Bruce charged off while Damian took over.

“Come _on_ ,” Damian said with a growl, dragging Dick back up.

Dick looked, found a rope dangling from the edge of the room. Dick’s gaze travelled up the rope to a missing tile in the ceiling, the shadows a stark black contrast to the rest of the illuminated white surface.

“I can’t climb,” he managed to reason.

“Bullshit, you just climbed a bloody fucking owl statue. Come _on_ ,” Damian said, hand gripping into the arm Dick had wrapped around his shoulders, and Dick stumbled along.

Damian was hurrying him but it was difficult to keep up. Dick’s head was spinning. Coming in and out of focus. He glanced back up at the ceiling, they were closer to the rope now. But the shadows, all of the black, began to bleed down. Shadows of dead birds falling. Dick closed his eyes. It wasn’t real.

Eyes closed. Everything black.

_Whoa there, buddy._

_Richard John Grayson, the Court has sentenced you to die._

A thousand bats flying towards him.

_What’s wrong with him?_

_Blood is everything, Richard._

Talon chasing him.

_Dad._

Sonia Zucco’s blood.

_We’re going to help you escape._

_I waited a long time for you._

_Dick, do you want to feed the ducks?_

Eyes opened. Everything white.

“No!” Dick said at once, pulling himself out of Damian’s grasp.

He heard the younger curse but it was blocked out by a harsh sound in the background. A noise of pain. Dick snapped out of his stupor long enough to look. His mind hadn’t quite processed the gore he was witnessing until he heard Damian beside him.

“Batman!”

Dick’s gaze travelled from Batman and his mangled arm to the man holding him. Talon. Behind him, along the wall at a safe distance, a small audience of Owls.

“Just go!” Bruce said with a growl, struggling against one of Talon’s daggers that was threatening to inch toward his throat. Damian hesitated but eventually grabbed Dick’s arm and forcefully yanked him along. It mattered little—Dick was stunned long enough to forget why he had resisted.

In that moment, Talon stopped and looked in their direction. The great, big yellow eyes stared directly at Dick, paralyzing him. He could hear a voice yelling at him, pulling at him, but Dick was frozen. Then Talon looked down at Bruce, who was still in his grasp, one arm broken. The two struggled for a moment, Talon looking into his face, but he finally released Bruce—shoving him aside.

“What are you doing?” an Owl shrieked, in a way that echoed in Dick’s ears. The fear in her voice made Dick afraid too, though he still wasn’t sure what was happening. “Don’t leave him, _kill_ him!”

Suddenly the Talon was rushing towards them.

“ _Damn it_ ,” Damian cursed under his breath, and instead of fumbling with the ropes, he was reaching into his belt. A grappling gun. But before Damian could grab ahold of Dick, Talon had already closed in.

Dick didn’t know what to do when Talon grabbed him by the wrist.

“I won’t abandon you again,” Talon said, and maybe it was because Dick hadn’t heard his voice in so long, but there was something _different_ in his voice. Something almost forlorn. “I just wanted a better life for you. I never should have given you to them.”

“Fuck _off_ ,” Damian said, kicking at Talon—and while Dick was sure that the blow hadn’t hurt Talon, the force was enough to make Talon lose his grip. Dick felt an arm wrap around him, and suddenly there was the sound of the grappling gun. They were both hoisted in the air, propelling toward the ceiling.

Dick and Damian both landed clumsily on the other side. On the edge, Dick could see Talon immediately making a climb for the ropes. Damian spotted it too, grabbing the ropes and slicing through it with his sword. Talon jumped off and landed on the ground. His gaze was still fixated toward them but there was shouting. Talon turned around and was out of sight.

Heading in Batman’s direction, Dick realized.

“Damnit,” he heard Damian curse to himself, but there was a layer of emotion in his frustration that Dick had never heard before. Damian slammed his fist against the ground once and left it at that. He immediately snatched Dick by the arm, pulling him in a direction. Dick slowly began to recognize it—they were in the pathways. This was the escape route.

“Come on,” Damian said, and Dick wasn’t quite sure who he was talking to. “We can’t look back now.”

 

Damian didn’t blindfold him when they got into the batmobile. It mattered little—Dick didn’t recognize the underground pathways that the car travelled. His mind was reeling with the events of the night, raising questions about where he stood with the Court. About what was happening to Batman. About Talon, who had defied his orders.

They went through a tunnel that led into the Cave. Without a word, Damian parked. Dick’s eyes remained glued to the ground when he heard his car door open, didn’t bother to argue when Damian roughly grabbed him by the arm, thumb digging into his bicep, and pulled him out.

Dick let Damian lead him where he wanted—as they walked, they passed the butler. Pennyworth looked back and forth between them, eyes widening.

“Where’s Master Bruce?” Pennyworth asked.

Damian ignored him, walked determinedly into the Cave. It wasn’t until Dick realized where they were heading that he finally began to fight back, pulling away at once. All of his senses went off at once, alarms telling him to run.

“I’m not going in there, I’m not going to be trapped again,” he said, drawing back. His instincts were so dulled from exhaustion that he didn’t react in time when Damian yanked on his collar, drawing him in.

“The last time I saw my father, he was wounded and fighting _your_ friend,” he said with a growl. This wasn’t like the mild annoyance he had shown before, or his usual snottiness, he was genuinely _angry_ , the emotion burning in his eyes. “The only thing that is stopping me from _killing you_ right now is the possibility that he’s still alive. I have to go and find him, you have to stay here, and I don’t trust you. I don’t give a shit if you don’t like it: you’re getting locked in a cell or your head is going to be lopped off. There are no other options.”

“I’m not doing it.”

Damian made a frustrated noise and let go of him roughly. Dick actually stumbled back a step from the force.

“You’re only saying that because you’re delirious. If you really had a death wish, you would have stabbed yourself on that dagger long ago. You wouldn’t even be training to be a Talon, for that matter.”

That wasn’t right. Dick knew arguing with Damian was pointless but he said it anyways, “I didn’t do it to become immortal.”

“Nonsense,” Damian said, narrowing his eyes. A touch quieter, he said, “Every fool wants to be immortal.” He locked eyes with him and added, “If it’s not for that, then what reason could it be? _Tt_. I bet you don’t even know.”

Dick realized he was right. He didn’t know. Not anymore.

“I hate to intrude but if Master Bruce is indeed missing, we must search for him now,” Dick could hear Pennyworth saying.

“I can’t leave you alone with him, he’s too dangerous,” Damian said, glaring at Dick pointedly. “Not without sticking him in a cage first.”

“For once, Master Damian, I agree,” the butler said, and Dick turned in time to see a shotgun being lifted in his direction.

Behind the shotgun, Alfred seemed to look at him almost mournfully.

“You’re going to shoot me,” Dick said.

“Not if you go in the cell peacefully,” Alfred said simply. “Trust me, I don’t want to. But I will if I have to.”

“I thought Batman didn’t use guns,” Dick said, eyeing down the barrel.

“I am not Batman, nor is Batman here,” Pennyworth muttered.

Dick’s senses were beginning to return to him. Faced with the weapon, he began to understand his predicament, began to see the potential for death. Not seeing a way to fight both of them, at least not while one of them was armed, Dick reluctantly moved from one prison to the next.

“When am I going to get out?” Dick asked when the glass door began to shut.

“Depends on if I find my father,” Damian said, scowling.

If. Not when.

 

Dick stared at his reflection in the glass. His eyes were sunken and bloodshot. He couldn’t understand how long he had been awake. The butler stayed on guard but didn’t seem vengeful—just concerned for Bruce’s safety. He kept pacing back and forth between the computers and Dick’s cell. Dick was sure he could sleep without worry of being harmed but his paranoia kept him awake. The images had stopped long ago but there was the lingering feeling of fear and anxiety, and despite whatever logic he had to argue against such fears he still couldn’t shake the feeling.

Dick didn’t know the day, the hour, anything. But he did know that a great deal of time passed before Damian returned. Dick caught movement in the corner of his eye—Pennyworth getting up, leaving.

Damian had come alone.

Dick stared, waiting for Damian to come interrogate him or even kill him. But the pup didn’t even acknowledge his presence—walking off in the direction of a staircase. Alfred glanced at Dick once before returning to the computer. The lights from the monitors disappeared. And soon, all of the lights were shut off, and Dick was stuck in the darkness again.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 2/24: I'm still working on the ending to the story, but I hope to have the next part up in a week or two. Because of the length and a desire for consistency, there is a small possibility that I may split the final part into two chapters. Regardless, I should have something posted very soon. Thank you for your patience!


	3. Red

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After saving Dick from the labyrinth, Bruce remains missing. Damian is determined to trust him, and Dick in unsure where he stands with the Owls.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After some contemplation, I have decided to add one more chapter. There was just far too much content to put it all into a single chapter. The next chapter, however, should be the last. Then there will the epilogue.
> 
> I apologize ahead of time if the editing in this chapter is sloppy. I tried my best to edit it but I did it in a hurry. I wanted to get this chapter up before the week started, since I'll be busy.
> 
> As mentioned, my upcoming schedule is pretty full, so I will mostly like not have an update in a week. But I don't seen any reason why I won't have it up in 2-3 weeks, especially with spring break approaching. Sorry for the wait and thank you all so much for your support and patience.
> 
> Again, like the previous chapters, the chapter will preface with a flashback and then return to the present timeline.

“Are you lost, young man?”

Dick was sitting on a bench in one of Gotham’s subway stations. He had spent about an hour watching the people pass by, trying to figure out how the subways worked. He had only travelled on a subway with his parents, where they had handled everything and he just held his mother’s hand and followed. He had an idea of how it worked, and had managed to pick up enough change for fare, but he was so confused on what rail to take that he had given up.

He had been sitting on the bench, watching the route times flicker by on the monitor, trying to decide where to go.

He looked up at the woman. She had a security uniform on and was bent at the knees, at perfect eye level with Dick—so they could be equals. A trick that Dick had seen imitated by police officers and social workers. She had a kindly smile.

“Do you know where your parents are?” she asked gently. At her words, Dick felt conflicted.

He heard staticky voices on a radio. He glanced over the shoulder of the woman, at the man in a similar uniform standing a few yards away. Dick caught a phrase in the mess of words. _Missing child. Runaway_.

Dick kept his mouth closed. He didn’t know who these people were. They were strangers. At another time, maybe they’d even be targets. And while the woman seemed genuine, Dick couldn’t help but find her tone almost patronizing. The woman shifted uncomfortably at Dick’s silence.

“Do you have a home to go to?” she asked. Dick didn’t respond. “Tell you what—do you like hot chocolate?” Brief memories. Marshmallows filled to the rim. Mary licking her thumb, spit shining Dick’s nose that had dipped too far into the mug. “How about we go up to my office and I’ll make you a cup, and we can figure out where you need to go? How does that sound?”

Dick glanced at the smiling woman. Then his eyes flickered back up at the screen. “I have to go. I have to catch my train.”

He bought a ticket to the next route. A line going toward Metropolis. Dick supposed it didn’t matter where, he just needed to leave. He readjusted the sweatshirt he was wearing—it was too big, suited for the adult that had gotten up from his seat to check the monitors and made the mistake of leaving the garment on a bench. But Dick supposed it did fine, so long as it covered the armor he was wearing.

He watched the platform. A rush of air brushed against his skin as a speeding train arrived. Piles of people all rushed to get on. Dick’s eyes flickered among the crowd of strangers. He swallowed and hurried to get on the train—but a voice announced that the doors were closing, and Dick realized too late that he had hesitated.

The train left and Dick was forced to wait for the next one.

He paced along the edge of the yellow caution line. The platform felt empty now that everyone had boarded the train, except him. Suddenly, he sensed something—but it was too late. A hand was on him, grabbing him.

There was no time to fight it off—he was yanked into the shadows of a tunnel. In the dim lighting, he caught an owl looking back at him.

“Talon?” Dick said cautiously, feeling breathless. He wasn’t sure if he believed what he was seeing. Talon reached for his full mask, yanking it off his head and revealing the face that Dick had only ever seen in rare instances. It was enough to confirm who he was. Dick felt his heart clench. “They killed you.”

“I was never dead, Richard,” Talon said in a low voice, looking at him, and without the mask, his eyes seemed startlingly human. “I can _never_ be dead.”

“They tried to _replace_ you,” Dick said, shaking his head to himself.

“They want you to learn from other talents. It’s what the Court ordered—”Talon started.

“I don’t want to go back there,” Dick insisted.

Dick stared at the ground, mentally preparing himself for the scolding, or even a strike, but it never came. They stayed there in the dimlit corner of the subway for a moment. Dick could feel his heart pounding in his chest, filling the silence between them.

“Where are you running to?” Talon finally asked. Dick considered the question for a moment, before slowly shaking his head to himself.

“I don’t know,” he finally confessed. “Anywhere but here.”

“Why?” Talon asked.

Because they took Talon away. Because Dick was afraid. Because the Owls weren’t his family.

There were lots of reasons but Dick faltered to come up with an answer. The truth was that he wasn’t sure. He knew why he was leaving, but he had no idea where he was heading either.

“Maybe I was hoping I’d find my own path,” Dick said. He finally dared to pick his chin up. Talon’s eyes, dulled from the electrum, stared back at him. But there was something in the Talon’s eyes that seemed to look deeply back, as if searching. After a moment, Talon placed both hands on Dick’s shoulders. They were not forceful, or gentle. They just held him firmly in place.

“Richard,” he said. “This _is_ your path.” 

* * *

 

The lights in the cave were already on when Dick awoke. The door had opened but Dick was too weak to move, to react. He was finally knocked out of his stupor when something clattered loudly against the table next to him. He glanced up wearily at the tray—and felt himself waken when he realized he was smelling food.

Damian just glanced at him coldly before turning briskly on his heel. As tempting as the food was, Dick was more terrified remembering that he had been trapped. He got up and hurried to follow after Damian but Damian was already shutting the door.

“You can’t keep me in here,” Dick said, slamming his fist against the door.

“Like hell I can’t,” he heard Damian yell, voice muffled through the layer of glass. Dick wanted to yell back but he couldn’t muster up the strength to even raise his voice.

“I can’t stay locked up like this,” Dick said, fisting sliding against the door, energy draining. “I’ll go insane.”

“You’re already insane,” Damian said, glaring, and he sealed off the door—and all noise with it.

Dick took a step back, feeling defeated. He watched Damian’s back as he disappeared further into the Cave, conversing with Pennyworth near a computer. Dick felt a sudden desperation rise through him—he wanted to bang his fist against the glass until Damian had no choice but to pay attention to him but he was interrupted by the smell of his breakfast. He hadn’t eaten in so long.

He went to his meal. The meal laid before him was nothing like the full meal Pennyworth had prepared when Dick was first captured—it was mediocre in size, and flavorless. Just toast and oatmeal and eggs. But Dick hadn’t eaten in so long that he slammed it down.

Periodically, every few hours for the rest of the day, Damian and Pennyworth would drop off small meals to him. Dick quickly realized what they were doing—trying to wean him back onto food, without overfeeding him. Indeed, because of the deprivation inside of the labyrinth, every meal that Dick encountered was consumed way too fast.

It wasn’t until later that Dick remembered the first time he had been given food in that cell. Luxurious meals that he refused to touch. Part of him wondered where that pride had gone. Even after being starved, a small sense of guilt and shamed lingered in the back of his head—he shouldn’t be accepting food from them. They were his enemies. Still, the thoughts were never enough to stop him from eating.

At the end of the day, when he was dropping off a meal, Damian finally stopped long enough to speak to him. The young warrior didn't look him in the eye—there was tension, angry tension, in his whole body. Crossed arms, turned head—he even stood a few paces away, purposefully distancing himself. He seemed almost restrained.

“I've looked everywhere,” he said, voice low. “I have no idea where they could have taken him.” Damian narrowed his eyes, his gaze still distant. “Even if they killed him… they should have placed him _somewhere_.”

There was uncertainty in his voice. It was clear that Damian had no clue what actually happened to his father—if he had been killed, or if he was captured, or if he had managed an escape and was lost. Dick’s gaze lowered. He felt a small sense of guilt, though he could not explain why. He never asked to be saved. And yet, he felt he had done something wrong. He had torn apart this family, whether he intended it or not.

Dick’s mind travelled back to Sonia.

“I don't know what they planned on doing with him,” was all Dick could say. “Most likely, he was killed.”

“And if he's alive?” Damian asked, looking back at him. Dick couldn't read the look in his eyes. “If he was alive, where would they take him?”

Dick’s brow furrowed. “I don't know.”

“ _Liar_ —”Damian hissed, and Dick prepared himself when he saw the clenched fist raise—though instead of moving to strike first, he instinctively raised his arm in defense. Damian stopped himself before he could strike, cursing under his breath. He paced around the room. “Think _harder_. There has to be someplace where they'd take him.”

“I told you, I don’t know—”

“Father thought you deserved a second chance,” Damian said. Dick just looked at him, eyes following him as he moved back and forth. He focused on Damian’s eyes—saw the conflict in them. “I knew you'd be loyal to them, no matter what. It's how you were raised. It's in your discipline, your blood.” Damian’s brow furrowed, his gaze distant. The more he talked, the more Dick was unsure that Damian was speaking to him. “I told him that there was no way you'd betray them. That the only way you'd think about leaving is if you thought what you were doing was wrong, or if there was someone you cared about on the other side. He told me that it was _our_ job to _make_ you realize your ways, to _make_ you care. To make you realize that you were still _redeemable_.”

Dick felt an apology on the tip of his tongue but he didn't say a word. Damian, looking suddenly frustrated, left.

 

“They really did a number on you, huh?”

The voice awoke Dick from his slumber. Normally, he would never be snuck up on, even while asleep, so he reacted on instinct. He immediately sat upright in his cot but he had no weapon to arm himself with. He got on his feet on the ground, ready to raise himself in a fighting position but a sudden weakness hit him. He was still recovering from the labyrinth.

Standing in the doorway was a man who Dick instantly recognized. Still, part of him couldn’t believe what he was seeing was real.

“What are you doing here?” he asked Calvin, though he hadn’t relaxed quite yet. It was all too strange and alarming.

“Batman’s moody kid sought me out. He said he wanted to find Batman and I said I might know where the Parliament is keeping him,” Calvin said casually enough, walking a little further into the cell. Dick just felt more confused but he began to relax. Dick wasn’t on a mission. He wasn’t even sure if he could still be called a disciple—after everything, the Court may have even ordered his death. There was no reason for him to fight Calvin.

“How kind of you,” Dick said flatly. Calvin said nothing, just leaned his shoulder against one of the walls. “So, what’s in it for you?”

“Well, Batman and I may not be a team but we definitely share the same goal. One that involves making a bunch of hooting, masked freaks pay for all of their cruelty. Also, I sort of owe him. He replaced all of the equipment you and the Talon stole from me—”

“That _you_ stole from the Owls,” Dick reminded him.

“Whatever. The point is, I repaid him for some information—specifically, how to get into the labyrinth, so he could save your sorry ass. As you can see, I got the better end of the deal, and while normally I don’t believe in debts… well, it’s _Batman_. Kind of hard to cheat the guy who protects Gotham from all the crazies.” Calvin shrugged. “I feel like nudging Bat Jr. in the direction to find him might finally call us even. But first, I wanted to see you.”

“So you were the one that told him how to get into the labyrinth,” Dick said. He then remembered how he had given Calvin’s name to Batman. It made sense—Calvin was the only person to have ever escaped the labyrinth. Batman and his son used that information to get into the labyrinth and take— _save_?—him. Dick’s brow furrowed, feeling more and more lost. He remembered how Batman was willing to work an arrangement with Dick, and how Dick repaid him by threatening to kill his butler to make his escape. This news only made everything more confusing. With a sense of wonder, he said, “He wanted to find me.”

“Seems so.”

“What’s the meaning of all this?”

“Dunno,” Calvin said, his head tilting back onto the wall. He frowned deeply as he thought it over. “That Bat guy is every bit as mysterious as he’s rumored to be. The whole time I talked to him, I couldn’t read him. But he is one of those hero types, after all, so it’s probably his job to help—”

“No, I’m not talking about Batman. I’m talking about _you_. Why are you here, talking to me?” Dick said sharply.

“I wanted to tell you what you’re getting yourself into—from one escapee to another. The Owls aren’t going to be happy about your departure.”

“I never asked to be taken out of the labyrinth,” Dick said, eyes narrowing. Dick didn’t like the solemn, almost pitying, look that Calvin had when he stared back at him. “Look, I know what you’re thinking. That I’m crazy, ungrateful, _whatever_. And if I’m honest, being in that labyrinth was...” Dick stopped for a moment, unsure of how to describe it. He could only think of one thing that was as horrible as that trial, and it was a specific, singular night at a circus. “It was _difficult_. But I knew what I was getting into when those doors opened.”

“So you remain loyal to them,” Calvin said, with no sense of surprise.

“Sorry,” Dick said, even though he didn’t feel sorry at all. “I’m sure that’s not what you wanted to hear.”

“No need to apologize. I really don’t care what killers and their apologists think,” Calvin said. Dick just looked at him, unflinching, as the harsh—but honest—words were tossed at him. “The only thing I’ll grieve is lost potential—and even then, after all the Owls put me through, I can’t grieve for long.” Calvin spoke casually enough but Dick could sense something in his gaze. Something was making him stay in that room. “They’ll take you back. It’s not just their low numbers and waning power. It’s not desperation. It’s their _superiority_ complex. It’s the same reason they want me back, even after all of these years of me giving them hell. They want to control this city. They want to control the world. They violate the rules of nature to prove that they’re _stronger_ than nature, with their undying Talons who can only be shut off by their hands. They want to control _you_.”

“And what happens if I leave?” Dick said. “Tell me why you’re _really_ here.”

Calvin considered him for a moment, cautiously thinking over his words. Dick answered for him.

“It’s not just your talents and your freedom that the Owls want, Calvin. It’s information.”

“And are you going to be the one to give that to them?” Calvin said, but not in a way that he seemed threatened. He seemed to speak almost challengingly.

“I just want to know what you plan on doing with me after you help me escape this cell,” Dick said. After a moment, he shrugged. “Well, _if_ you help me escape this cell. Haven’t quite made my decision yet and I’m not an expert, but I’m assuming you can’t cook as well as a butler.”

“Well, here are a few of your options: you can go crawling back to the Owls, or you can stay in this dark, murky cave filled with batshit, or you can come with me. You can help my organization. You can fight the Owls, and they’ll never control you or anyone else again.”

At that, Dick couldn’t resist the single noise of laughter that escaped him. “The first time we met, you _punched_ me.”

“ _No_ , the first time we met, you wiped your snot-nosed face on the brand new suit Mr. Haly gave me,” Calvin corrected with a bit of a smile. The smile felt too familiar and Dick felt a sense of guardedness overcome him.

“Do I get a fourth option?”

For a moment, Calvin went quiet. Then he said, “Once you’ve escaped, you’ll have all the options in the world. You’ll be free to do whatever you want. You could even run away and join the circus, if you wanted to.”

Dick thought of his parents. _No_ , that was the last thing Dick could do. He could never go back to that again. A trapeze would never feel the same without John or Mary on the other side, waiting to catch him. Even if he was free, he could never fly.

“If you go back to the Owls, you’ll have to kill _them_ ,” Calvin said quietly. Dick didn’t respond. “I mean, the kid is kind of an asshole, but for the most part, these Bats seem like good people. And they seem to care enough about your well-being that they’d risk jumping into the middle of a torture chamber to set you free. When you go back to the Owls, the Court won’t care how nicely they’ve treated you. They’ll want them _dead_. And they’ll want _you_ to do it, to prove your loyalty.”

“Then maybe I should stay here a little longer,” Dick said.

Calvin’s gaze lowered. “Your choice.”

 

Dick was finally let out of his cell but it hardly felt like freedom. He was wrapped in so many chains and ropes that if he somehow ever managed to get out of it, then he’d probably consider becoming a professional escape artist and join the circus after all.

Dick didn’t understand what was happening when Pennyworth drew his blood, or the rest of examinations he seemed to be doing, and he couldn’t very well ask with the gag around his mouth. He was allowed freedom to walk around the cave but it was hard to move with the weighted cuffs around his legs. Pennyworth and Damian were at a distance, talking amongst themselves, and even if Dick could get close enough to listen in, he doubted that they were daft enough to not notice his presence with the rattling chains.

So Dick just paced where he could, glancing around the cave. He was staring at the staircase curiously when he suddenly felt a yank on the chain around his middle.

“Come _on_ ,” Damian said impatiently, as if Dick had a choice.

When they were back in the cell, Damian began to disassemble the elaborate bonds. Dick felt immediate relief when the gag was removed. The tests had taken a long time to run and the cloth had been tied between his teeth the entire time, keeping his jaw hinged to the point of aching. Dick knew that Damian wasn’t going to explain what the tests were for.

“What’s up there?” Dick asked instead. Damian didn’t look at him. He continued working on the cuffs. “The staircase—”

“The Land of Oz,” Damian said sarcastically. Snorting a little to himself, he muttered, “And if you’re so lucky, you’ll meet Toto—who is more well trained with dealing with ruffians than he appears.”

“‘Ruffian’?” Dick repeated, crooking an eyebrow.

“Shut up or I’ll gag you again.”

“I almost think you prefer me gagged,” Dick said. At that, Damian stopped and looked at him.

“You’re right,” he said. “I do.”

Dick owned up to the error he made and didn’t resist when Damian shoved the cloth back in his mouth.

 

Days had passed, perhaps over a week. Dick was back at full strength and was already beginning to return to his normal self. Part of this included being more on guard. Every night, Damian would disappear into the city, presumably looking for his father. And every dawn when he returned, Dick was fully expecting the pup to come into his cell and attempt to slit his throat, bearing news of Batman’s death.

Dick wasn’t asleep when the lights of the Cave came on. He sat up, expecting the usual duo to be standing at the door of his cell, but was surprised to see that it was only one visitor.

The pup.

Dick was immediately onguard—but there was no menace in Damian’s eyes. At least, nothing that was unusually hostile, though he appeared to be dressed in his uniform which sent off some mixed signals. Dick’s gaze travelled downwards and stopped, noticing something inside of Damian’s hands that was familiar.

Dick caught the item that was tossed toward him. His mask. The rest of Dick’s uniform was dumped on his cot.

“Get dressed.”

 

The crescent moon was thin. A dark cloud passed by, blocking out the moonlight. In an instant, all of Gotham appeared black.

Dick followed Damian beyond the city, to the quiet streets of closed factories and abandoned shipyards, where the smog still hung thick in the air and the rotting smell of the sewers rose to the surface. Even so, Dick embraced it—it had been so long since he had _real_ air. They travelled by the way of rooftops instead of the cramped and dusty passageways he was used to.

It was behind the chain link fence of a palette manufacturer that Damian finally slowed to a stop. The area seemed entirely deserted.

“A few blocks from here, there’s an old building. A local street gang has been using it as their hideout. They’re vandalizers and rough housers but compared to the drug empires and sex traffickers and supervillains, they’re nothing but small fry,” Damian said, idly tightening his bracer. “They’re usually not worth the trouble but it’ll be good to shut them down before they get too big.”

“You want me to take them out.”

“Not by your definition. Or mine, for that matter,” Damian said, snorting a little. “What was that word you used for that maze? A ‘trial’? Well, consider this your first _new_ trial. We’re going to catch them, non lethally. We’re going to do it the Batman way.”

“The Batman way—minus the fact that there may not even be a Batman,” Dick said. Damian tensed but Dick kept talking, “You sure you should be testing me when your father’s still _missing_?”

Damian’s annoyance only grew but for once, he ignored the slight. In truth, Dick was speaking out of turn. He may have been given his uniform back but that was it. He was weaponless, Damian was not. Still, part of him hoped that Damian would just make his move already and give Dick his excuse to fight back and escape. Damian continued, “Can you fight?”

Dick gave him a look. “Is that a trick question?”

“I’m asking you if you can fight, as in win in combat without killing someone. I’m asking if you can pull back your blows or if your training is anything like mine, where there is no holding back,” Damian said pointedly. At that, Dick was quiet. He had learned how to do everything—but the bulk of his training was based on the successful assassination, which only involved lethal blows. Instructions on how to defend, to _fight_ , always came afterwards or were saved for certain challenges—and Dick had only practiced such training with a sparring partner who could not die.

So fighting, with the intention of giving his opponent a chance to defend themselves, a chance to _live_ , wasn’t something that he was used to.

He thought briefly of his first trial, fighting with the disciple. He remembered the pain, the sweat, the blood. He remembered wrapping the cord around the dancer’s neck until his face turned purple and gray.

Damian took his silence as an answer. He sighed a little. Clearly, he had expected that as the response. “Do you know how to do a sleeper hold, at least?”

That he was practiced in. He could knock a person unconscious rather easily, in the case he need to capture someone. He gave a terse nod.

“No killing. Nothing fatal. We do this the Batman way,” Damian said, adjusting his hood, and he silently slipped over the edge of the roof to the ground below. Dick followed.

They walked in silence across the grounds, making their way to the old building. They moved in the exact same path Dick would have taken if was working on his own—close to the shadows, as he was trained. And how Damian was trained, as it seemed. Damian climbed over a crate, peeking into the window of the building. In that brief movement, Dick glanced at Damian’s utility belt. It felt horribly tempting to steal it. A batarang perhaps. Anything sharp. But although the thought crossed his mind, he didn’t act on it. He stayed in place.

Damian ducked back down, murmuring, “Twelve men. Eight on the ground floor, four on the sublevel. No guns, just melee weapons. I’ll smoke the building and then you rush in.”

At that, Dick paused. “And what are you going to do?”

“I’m going to watch.”

At that, Dick felt his indignation flare. “So you’re sending me in to do all of your work? The only orders I take are from the Court, not some _pup_.”

“Would you rather I toss you back into the cell?” Damian hissed back. “Like I said, this is a trial. _Your_ trial. Oh, and _don’t_ call me that.”

Dick knew he was going to follow orders. Damian was a fiercer fighter than Dick was willing to admit, and with his tools and Dick being empty handed, it was easy to guess who’d have the advantage. Dick was slowly beginning to regret not grabbing the belt. “Okay, pup.”

At that, Damian’s expression soured. Dryly, he muttered, “Pup. Like an _infant bat_. You must think you’re real clever.”

“You’re right, I do think so.”

Damian just shook his head to himself. He watched through the window for a moment longer before slowly raising it open. Dick positioned himself next to Damian, watching as the smoke bomb slipped from Damian’s hand and rolled across the floor. When it went off, Dick immediately slipped into the space.

He had to work fast. The last time he encountered Batman’s smoke bomb, it lasted only a few seconds—long enough to escape, but certainly not long enough to take out all twelve men. Dick relied on his most basic instincts, exactly as he was trained as a boy, and searched through the darkness and smoke to find his nearest target.

He heard coughing. He grabbed the nearest man, pulling him into a hold. He was unconscious in seconds. And then he moved onto the next.

It had been days since he was allowed to move freely. He was surprised by how much he _missed_ it. After so many years of training day in, day out, it had felt more like routine than something he enjoyed—and after what happened in the labyrinth, Dick wasn’t sure if putting on the uniform would ever feel the same again. But it all felt natural. Even without a blade in his hand, the ceaseless drumming in his chest and the adrenaline rushing in his veins was all the reminder he needed to feel like he was back. Back to his normal self.

Even without striking to kill, he could strike hard enough to knock out most of his opponents. When the smoke cleared and they started to fight back, it wasn’t enough. He moved around all of their blows effortlessly, avoiding every single strike. When the last man was finally down, Damian finally slipped through the window to join him.

“So, you said this was my trial,” Dick said. He used his foot to roll over the head of one of the men on the ground. He was bleeding but alive. “How did I do?”

Damian ignored him. He zip-tied all of the men, then spoke into the communicator. All messages to Alfred, if Dick was understanding the half of the conversation correctly. Dick watched him curiously the entire time, pondering. He still wasn’t exactly sure what Damian meant to be testing him on. His abilities shouldn’t have needed observing, Damian had experienced it firsthand.

“So what was this really about?”

“I need to know if you can control yourself,” Damian said simply, after he was finished tying the last criminal. He stood up, straightening his back. “From experience, there are two kinds of assassins: ones who spill blood when told, and ones who relish the bloodshed.”

“Which one were you?”

“You're alive, aren't you?”

“How does Batman’s son end up in the League of Assassins anyways?” Dick asked.

“You're getting way too comfortable if you think you can start asking those types of questions,” Damian said, walking off. Dick trailed closely behind him.

“I mean, you and Batman did try to save me—however unwarranted it was.”

“ _Batman_ tried to save you. _I_ was just following Batman’s orders.” After a moment, Damian said, “My mother is in the League of Assassins. There's your answer.”

It only raised more questions. Dick didn't know Bruce personally, not really, but he didn't seem like the type to fall in bed with an assassin. Or anyone, for that matter. He was handsome and his public identity had a reputation, sure, but the man himself seemed like he had never experienced a single ounce of fun or passion in his entire life. “Did he know?”

“It's complicated.”

“I'd assume those types of matters usually are.”

“ _Tt_. What, you mean you and Talon don't have an illegitimate owlet running around?”

“Talon is my mentor—not my ‘feathered boyfriend’, as you once put it. He's like—”Dick stopped, not wanting to say _my father_ , but it was the first thought that came to mind. He changed the subject. “The Court strictly prohibits Talons from having relationships. I've had my nights but it never lasts into morning, and it certainly never involved an enemy.”

“That's all the information you're getting out of me,” Damian said, annoyed. They were outside again, the moon still peeking at them from above. Damian headed toward a tall building, the same one with the roof they had hopped to get to that point. “If you're so invested in my father’s sex life, you can ask him when we find him. Preferably when I'm out of the room.”

“I wasn't curious about him, I was curious about you. Also, ‘we’?”

“You're going to help me find my father. And then I'll let you go.”

Dick blinked at this news. “How do you know I won't run away before then?”

“I don't. But considering you have no weapons or tools, I doubt you'll get far,” Damian said. “And even if you do, I swear that for as long as I live, I will make your life a living hell until I find him. If you run, I'll chase you. If you hide, I'll find you. And if I have to do it over and over again until I get the answers I need, then I'll do it.” Damian glanced back at Dick. “Besides, you want to return to the Court, right? I'll be leading you right back to them. My father, in exchange for you. And you can sing lies to the Court about how we kidnapped you and then I forced you to find my father.”

Dick frowned. “In case you've forgotten, pup, you _did_ kidnap me and in a way, you _are_ forcing me.”

“You know my name. Stop calling me that,” Damian said sharply. The tone hardly fazed Dick—if anything, Damian’s insistence only made it more amusing to disobey. Still, Dick let it go.

“How come you don’t have a moniker?” Dick asked.

“I don’t know. Why did your parents nickname you _Dick_? Actually, nevermind, I’m learning why,” Damian said, sounding grumpy.

“Isn’t Batman supposed to keep secrets? You should have some type of identity.”

“Maybe once they turn you into a zombie, I’ll choose a dumb bird name and we can match,” Damian said, snorting.

He followed Damian, finally climbing up a ladder on the side of the building.

At the top, Damian said, “I’m only in this uniform because of the Owls. If they weren’t dangerous, my father never would have allowed me to help on his missions. That’s why a moniker is pointless. After this, I’m back to sitting around at Wayne Estates.”

“Why?” Dick asked.

“Because I was raised an assassin. Because my father can’t trust me.”

“Is that why you’re always glaring at me? Because he trusts my word over yours?”

“First of all, my father doesn’t trust anyone, much less you. Second of all, I find you unbearably annoying. _That’s_ why.”

“Perhaps your father simply doesn’t want you to do it,” Dick said. “Perhaps it has nothing to do with trust, but fear. I imagine he didn’t want his son to be an assassin. Not many parents would.”

At that, Damian didn’t respond. He crossed the rooftop, Dick following. After a moment, he asked, “What’s your excuse then? Would your parents be happy knowing you murdered people?”

“My parents were killed. I joined to avenge their deaths. It doesn’t matter what they would think, all that matters is that they can’t.”

“They're avenged, aren't they? So why do you stay with the Owls?”

“Because I pledged my service to them. It's the path I chose to take.”

Damian pulled out his grappling gun, aiming it at a far away building. Closer to where Damian had parked the batmobile.

“To Batman?” Dick asked.

“No. Tonight is about your trials,” Damian said.

“There's more?” Dick asked.

“I'm just wearing this uniform until the Owls are defeated. I'm not a hero. But Batman would be disappointed if Gotham fell apart while he was gone,” Damian said simply.

As much as Damian tried to act hardened, Dick could catch it in his words and subtle actions: Damian was really hoping his father was still alive.  
            Instead of grabbing onto the line, Dick’s hand settled onto Damian’s wrist. Damian looked up at him, unblinking.

“After you, Damian,” Dick said.

Dick waited for Damian to redden and say something biting in return, but Damian seemed to be frozen in place. Damian finally yanked his hand away but Dick could still sense something between them, something unspoken. A tension that was likely related to how nicely Damian’s name seemed to roll of his tongue. But he, too, didn’t press it. Damian pocketed the grappling gun in a hurry and took off, taking the rooftops instead, and Dick went back to following.

 

It turned out that Damian did have a plan.

The tests that Alfred ran on Dick were all physical examinations. After confirming that Dick was in good health and that he could be controlled on missions, it was time to find Bruce.

Calvin had given Damian the coordinates to a safehouse where the Court’s prisoners were sometimes kept. It was located on the outskirts of Old Gotham. Dick wasn't used to running on the outside of the buildings—he was used to stalking the passageways within. And yet, he did feel this place was familiar.

“This is it,” Damian said, as they approached a brick wall. Damian’s brow furrowed. “But there's no entrance. Unless we're meant to enter through there—but that's the entrance to the museum.”

“We have to go through the passageways to get to the safehouse. Calvin would know all about the paths, so I’m certain that he’s truthful in saying that it’s here,” Dick said. He moved closer to the brick wall, touching it. Memories were beginning to drift back—he had travelled all the passageways. His earliest training forced him to memorize every nook and cranny. But some places he simply did not deeply explore—the Court loved keeping its secrets, after all, which Dick was reminded of more and more everyday. But he remembered paths near a museum, even if he didn’t necessarily remember a connected prison chamber. “The museum has a secret entrance leading to the passageways. Likely, that connection has a hollowed out space, which could lead somewhere entirely different. Say, a chamber where your father is being kept.”

Damian seemed lost in thought. Trusting Calvin’s coordinates meant having to trust Dick’s suggestion, and if Dick had learned anything from his time with Damian, it was that he didn’t like trusting anyone. The boy readjusted the strap on his shoulder—connecting to a black bag he had brought with him—and shrugged.

“I’ll find a way inside of the museum. Let’s go.”

Dick followed Damian to the back entrance of the museum. While the pup was picking the lock, Dick spoke up, “If your father _is_ in there, that means he’ll be guarded.”

“Is that supposed to intimidate me?” Damian said. With a loud click, he managed to spring the door open. Damian straightened his back. “I’ll free my father and we’ll be out of there before you can even _blink_.”

“I’m just saying—bringing me here might not be such a wise move. I might be weaponless now but Talon always carries more than one dagger.”

At that, Damian laughed. It was an odd thing, hearing him laugh. It sounded every bit as cruel as the rest of him—and yet, Dick sort of liked it.

“That’s assuming he’ll give it to you. In case you forgot, you _betrayed_ them. You left your trials with a bunch of bats. Nevermind the fact that it was unwilling—the bottom line is that you _left_ , and that can’t make you look good, can it? Maybe you should be less worried about Talons pointing their daggers on me—and more focused that they’ll turn them on _you_.”

“You think I’m worried about you?” Dick asked in a low voice.

“That’s not what I—”Damian started defensively—but then he turned his head and caught Dick’s small smirk, and his expression soured. Correcting himself, he said, “Shut up. You’re just as much of a tool to me as you are to them. I’m only stringing you along so I can use you as a bargaining chip, and maybe a meat shield if it comes down to it. It doesn’t matter if you and a million other Talons were chasing after me—I’m freeing my father, and there’s nothing any of you can do to stop me. That’s all.”

They entered the museum. Its ceilings were high, the displays dimly lit in blue lowlights, and shadows cast everywhere else. The air felt stagnant and cool, with a slight smell of floor polish filling the space. They walked along the clean floors in the dark and without meaning to, their footsteps were silent. A habit that both of them carried.

“This place is huge. Any idea where the entrance to the passageways would be?” Damian said.

“I’ve never seen the passageway entries from this perspective. I’ve always seen it from the other side. The passageways mostly exist to listen in on conversations—and there’s little to eavesdrop in a museum, so I’ve only come here in passing. If I had to guess—it’d likely be near a Greco-Roman exhibit.”

“ _Tt_. Makes sense, I suppose, with their obsession with labyrinths and all,” Damian said, stopping at a nearby directory. He took a moment to use the flashlight built into his bracer, glancing over the map and directions before taking off. They passed a series of armored suits, which Dick gazed upon curiously as they passed. It had been awhile since he walked in a museum—and he felt relaxed enough to take the luxury of observing. The museum was stuffed with different historical and cultural artifacts—so may, that the whole building looked almost cluttered. “Hopefully your memory will kick in once we find the passageways. But, considering your inability to navigate through the labyrinth, I’m not holding my breath.”

“It’s a labyrinth. Getting lost is to be expected.”

“You mean they didn’t give you a red thread?” Damian said.

“What?” Dick said, looking at him. Damian’s eyes flickered in his direction before looking away. He shrugged a shoulder, kept walking—his flashlight guiding the way.

“It was just a joke,” Damian said. When Dick continued to look at him, not understanding, Damian finally elaborated, “I mean, you were in a labyrinth. Just like in the Grecian myth, right? So in order to get through it, you needed a red thread. Just like in the story.”

“I knew it was based off the myth,” Dick said. “But I was never told the story.”

“ _Tt_. Of course not, they wouldn’t want you thinking that the labyrinth could be defeated.” They walked for a bit in silence, passing through an open arch. They were greeted by a _kouros_ , proving that they were getting close. After a moment, Damian sighed. He went on, explaining, “The labyrinth was designed by the genius inventor Daedalus—you know, the same man who made his son Icarus a pair of wings made from feathers and wax. His labyrinth was meant to be unnavigable. Theseus was meant to die in the labyrinth but his love, Ariadne, gave him a spool of red thread. Theseus laid the red thread so he wouldn’t lose track of where he had already been—if he got stuck in a dead end, or became lost, he could just follow the red thread to retrace his steps. After he defeated the minotaur, he followed the thread back to Ariadne, and that’s how he survived and defeated the labyrinth.”

“Was it an actual thread that he carried?” Dick asked.

Now it was Damian’s turn to be confused. He looked at Dick, saying, “What do you mean? What else could it have been?”

“Maybe he just wanted to return to Ariadne. Maybe his determination was the red thread.”

At that, Damian laughed once. “You’re surprisingly sentimental.”

Dick didn’t have an argument for that. He supposed it wouldn’t have made a difference—physical or metaphorical, he didn’t have a red thread.

“There’s a Chinese myth about red thread too,” Damian said after a moment. They were passing rows of pottery, all locked up in glass displays, and they moved closer and closer to the wall on the opposite side of the room. “The gods would bind two souls by a red thread, tying it around their ankles. This red thread can stretch any distance, and it can get tangled but it doesn’t break. Two souls joined by red thread, no matter how distant or tangled, are forever bound.” Damian looked at Dick, shrugging. “So there you go—another sentiment for you.”

“So since you’re the one who saved me from the labyrinth, does that mean we’re bound by red thread?” Dick said, smirking.

“Do you even believe half of the things that come out of your own mouth?” Damian said, muttering almost bitterly.

They reached the wall. Dick began to feel along the surface, trying to find the passageway. He knocked on the wall a few times, trying to find some indication. He knocked on a panel—it was hollow sounding.

“This is it. These entries are meant to be open from the inside. But if we look closely, we can find some notches—”Dick started, but then he stopped.

He couldn’t describe it—there was no sound, or smell, or vision, to set off his senses, but he swore he _felt_ something.

He moved in time, a knife latching itself into the wall where his head was just a second ago. He turned just in time to see Damian reacting as well, pulling out his sword from its scabbard. They looked around in the darkness, trying to find the source of the throwing knife. Dick felt almost defenseless—that knife had been for _him_ , and he didn’t have a weapon to defend himself. His heart was racing at the thought of it.

Between a series of cuirasses, he saw movement.

“Damian—”he started, the name slipping off his tongue, but Damian saw as well. Damian stepped out in front of him, swinging his sword in time as Talon leapt from the shadows, steel colliding against steel in a flurry of sparks.

But as Talon moved into the light coming from Damian’s bracer, Dick noticed something wrong.

This was not his Talon. This was someone else.

The face was adorned in a full-face mask, but the physique was entirely different. Feminine, even. There were differences in costume as well—long, black feathers worn at her shoulders. Dick didn’t get to stare for long—she was already on the offensive, aggressively attacking Damian in a fighting style that wasn’t anything remotely similar to what Dick was used to seeing.

Damian defended himself from each attack, and with a growl, he managed to push back one of the blows hard enough to knock the dagger from her hand. He rushed forward at the opening—and as they moved around the museum, knocking into tables and bumping into displays, Dick instantly picked up the fallen dagger.

Dick wasn’t sure what to do. Part of him felt like he should be joining the Talon—but she had just tried to kill him. Yet, he still couldn’t quite bring himself to partner with Damian.

Talon backed off a bit, creating some distance. Instead of charging at her with the sword, Damian dropped the black bag he had been carrying on his back to the floor. And out of it, he pulled out a gun.

But not a regular gun.

Dick’s eyes widened in surprise as he felt a cold gust of air rush through the room. He had never seen anything like it—when Damian fired the gun, a white flurry rushed out of the barrel. Talons were susceptible to cold, a fact that Batman and his son had exploited by bursting the cooling pipes when they were fighting Dick and Talon, in a time that seemed so long ago. Damian had planned better than Dick thought.

But it wasn’t everything. As Talon dodged by slipping behind a wall of displays, she waited for the opportunity to strike. Once behind a display that stood parallel to Damian, she pushed—sending a large display of armor onto Damian. Damian, caught offguard, didn’t dodge in time—letting the freeze gun slip from his fingers as he was knocked to the ground in a loud crash. The disturbed display case set off a loud alarm that rang through Dick’s ears.

Damian struggled to get up after being struck by the heavy display. In that moment, the Talon leapt over the fallen objects and onto Damian, pushing him further into the ground. Damian’s breath caught, like the air had been pushed out of him. Talon stepped off, snatching Damian off the ground. Damian was stunned, unable to fight back, and that was where the Talon swung back her arm, ready to strike again.

That was when Dick stepped in. He rushed in and grabbed onto her. They struggled. She backed up, slamming him into a nearby column. Dick tried to aim the dagger at her throat, though he knew was it was fruitless. She’d survive.

“They warned me you’d be a traitor,” she said, her voice muffled by the mask. But she did not breathe. Dick didn’t care about her words—there was only one thing bothering him.

“The Talon before you. Where is he?” he demanded.

“You don’t even know his name, do you?” she said, breaking the hold. She took off and Dick chased. He sprinted past the doorway he had came through, spotted her climbing up to the level above them. He quickly scaled after her, using the notches in the wall and a pillar to help him climb higher and higher toward the upper floor. He climbed over the railing and continued to chase her, gaining ground on her as they ran down a corridor. The entire time, she called back to him. Goading. “If you want him back, you know what you must do. Return to the Owls.”

Dick followed her around a corner, into an exhibit that rebuilt the streets of old Gotham. Once there, he realized he had lost track of her. He gazed around the imitations of 1900s buildings and houses, illuminated by the dull orange lowlights, trying to find the Talon, but there was too much darkness. He kept his senses alert and his footsteps silent, slowly treading onto the floor. He was surrounded by fake streetlights, old cars, fences—anything that she could hide behind before slipping back out of the shadows to kill him.

“How do I know the Owls won’t kill me if I return?” Dick called out, hand tightening around the dagger. An unfamiliar feeling rose through his chest—frustration. When there was no response, he rose his voice, “You called me a traitor!”

There was a pause, the sound of Dick’s words seeming to linger in the air.

Finally, a voice spoke. From where, Dick was not sure—she seemed to be throwing her voice around the exhibit. She could be behind any statute. Could be behind any corner, any false rooftop. Dick slipped into a defensive position, in case she came in at him from any such directions.

“The Court has ordered the following: you must complete your last trial. You must defeat your mentor. You must become a Talon. And then you must kill the Waynes, once and for all—you must _end_ the bloodline.”

“How am I supposed to believe you?” Dick asked, calling through the darkness. He slowly turned in place, trying to search through the darkness. He nearly crashed into a statue of a woman holding an umbrella. Suddenly, he was aware of how many statues surrounded them. In the poor lighting, they looked like shadowed people, and suddenly he was flashbacking to the labyrinth again. He didn’t dare to close his eyes, remembering the very real threat of the Talon chasing after him and choosing to focus on that, rather than the hallucinations of bats and dead birds and his bleeding father.

“Because the Court has _ordered it_ ,” the voice spoke harshly.

“I can’t trust the Court,” Dick said, the words slipping from his mouth without thought. It wasn’t until he said it out loud that he realized it was true. He slowly shook his head to himself, remembering everything. Each moment of cruelty and coldness. “Everything they’ve done—”he swallowed”—everything that they _do_. It’s not right.”

“But can you trust the Waynes?” the voice spoke lowly. It almost felt close. Dick spun around, but nothing. The darkness was beginning to get to him. The shadowed streets reminded him of the shadowed walkways of the labyrinth—the ones that were just as horrific and confining as the brightly lit room with the marble owl that _poisoned_ him. Almost mockingly, she went on, “Did they spoil you, Gray Son? Did they show you riches beyond what you had ever dreamed, even in your days of sleeping on the floors of tents and caravans? Did they show you the _white_ of Gotham—shining and glimmering with _undisciplined_ love and hope? Did they tell you how they wished to make you one of _theirs_?” Voice low, words hissing between teeth: “Have you _forgotten_ where you came from?”

Dick heard a noise. He spun in time to see movement in the shadows, from behind a bench. He raised his dagger in time, felt the impact reverberate through his forearm, heard the crash of steel.

“If you refuse to follow the Court’s orders, then I have no choice but to _kill_ you—”she hissed. Another strike, quick as a snake’s bite, into his shoulder. He grit his teeth in pain, the blade pulling out as quick as it had stabbed. It rushed in to strike again but he moved out of the way. He nearly fell onto the hood of an old car but he improvised, rolling over it. She stepped around it, chasing after him calmly as they moved further and further along the exhibit’s pathways. Past the houses and buildings of old.

“Gray Son. The one who walks between black and white. Do you understand where that came from?”

Dick backed away—the Talon kicked something along the ground, a fallen pipe of sorts, perhaps broken off from one of the displays, that reeled in his direction. He moved out of the way, never turning his back on her oncoming advance.

“It’s because it’s your legacy, given to you through your adopted family name. Your ancestor _handed you_ to the Owls and gave you that name. Your bloodline _wanted you_ to succeed them in becoming a Talon. And when your parents died, the _Owls_ took you in. Not _bats_.”

Was he destined to be Owl all along? He thought of his parents, dead on the ground.

Dick shoved the thoughts in the back of his mind. More brainwashing. That’s all it was. Just words to get him to shut up and obey. The Talon drew in close so he made his strike, swiping at her with a fist. The impact made her recoil but it didn’t faze her. Didn’t hurt her. She kept walking towards him, slowly.

“You want to be ungrateful to their legacy? You want to betray your own blood for _riches_? You want to abandon your heritage, the tradition of the circus and all of your hard-earned training, to laze around in some manor? To live a privileged, pampered life?”

Images of his parents floated through his mind. Smiles and trapezes and hot chocolate and ducks at a pond.

“I never wanted any of this,” Dick whispered. She ran in for a hold but he slipped out of it. He stabbed his dagger into her arm with as much force as he could and yanked it back out. The muscle in her forearm was torn but she still moved, her thick blood running down to her gloves. It’d heal. Dick knew it’d heal. The Talon would never stop.

“You can whine and complain about the Owls and their treatment of you all you want, but it was the _Waynes_ who caused this all. The Waynes, the Elliots, the Cobblepots, the Kanes— _all_ of them. Spoiled, elitist families, printing their name on every inch of limestone in this city. Building their bridges on the blood and at the expense of the poor—on the expense of families like _yours_.”

Familiar words echoed in his head. _My father died on this bridge_.

“You’ll never be one of them. You’re too much of an Owl. They chose to don a costume and pretend to be _heroes_ , while you chose revenge—and they’ll never forgive you for that. They’ll place you in their prisons. They’ll send you to their asylums. They’ll destroy your mentor and then _abandon_ you.”

They exchanged blows and with each strike, Dick thought of Damian. He thought of the demon’s head on the pommel. His stories about making _choices_. But then he thought of when he first met Damian, and the way the boy had raised his blade and hesitated to strike, because his first instinct had been to _kill_. He thought of the way the butler was assigned to watch him, out of fear that he would do something rash in Batman’s absence. He thought of how Damian was _nameless_ because he was only pretending to be a hero, and that his father never wanted him on missions because he couldn’t even trust his own _son_.

Dick knew why he wanted to leave.

But he still didn’t know where he was heading.

“You’re wrong. You can’t know that,” Dick said, because he had to believe. But all of the evidence seemed to point otherwise. “The Owls made me into a weapon. They let my parents die. They put a _switch_ inside of me, without me knowing.”

“The electrum tooth,” the Talon said, and it wasn’t a question. “All disciples have the tooth.”

“But I didn’t _choose_ it,” Dick said, growling. Revenge. He had chosen that. He could admit that. But he never knew that the Court had installed the electrum tooth inside of him before all of that.

The Talon made a light scoffing noise, and she seemed to slow down in her assault.

“Lies, lies, and _more lies_. It’s the _Bats_ who want to use you, boy. The Owls never put that tooth inside of you. It was your _father_.”

Dick was thrown offguard. In that split second, the Talon kicked him hard. Blood instantly welled in his mouth, his head pounding from the sheer force of impact. He stumbled backwards, the entire room swaying back and forth, the shadows of statues whirling around him, and he almost tripped.

_Never trust a Wayne_.

He raised his arm in time to grab a punch. He struggled against her inhuman strength, trying to hold her in place.

“It was supposed to be your father who joined the Court but he left. Went away to Europe, where he eventually met your mother and they had you. And when the Graysons returned, the Court spotted _you_. The perfect prodigy child. And they gave your parents a choice.”

“So what? You’re telling me that my parents betrayed me?” Dick spit back, unable to hold his contempt at this monster who dared to speak of his parents, like she knew better than he. But after all the lies, all the distrust, a small part of him wondered if she was _right_. “That they were going to _give me away_?”

“Betray you? No. They wanted to give you a better life. A life where you would live forever and feel no pain. A life where you could be a part of something _better_.”

She was lying.

She had to be.

All the Court did was lie.

But again. _Again_. That doubt still lingered.

He stopped fighting.

He slipped away from her, abandoning his grip. At his actions, she slowed to a stop as well. They looked each other down in silence until she finally spoke, repeating her words from earlier, “The Court has ordered the following: you must complete your last trial. You must defeat your mentor. You must become a Talon. And then you must kill the Waynes, once and for all.”

Dick closed his eyes for a moment.

_I imagine he didn’t want his son to be an assassin. Not many parents would_.

“What’s your answer, Gray Son?” she said quietly.

Dick opened his eyes again. He was surrounded by the buildings reminiscent of Old Gotham—before the weathering and age. And it was enough to remember long nights of running the rooftops and training with Talon. He called an incident in his past, standing at a train station. Unsure of where to go. And Talon, looking at him, saying—

“This is my path,” Dick said aloud.

“It is,” she said with a tone of finality. “Come with me—”

But before she could move any closer to him, Dick spotted something out of the corner of his eye.

Dick immediately distanced himself from the Talon, rolling out of the way in time as the cold blast shot in their directions. It narrowly missed Dick, he could even feel its freezing gust. He glanced back in time, barely catching Talon as she dodged—but the freeze gun just barely caught her leg, and she tripped.

“ _Wait_ —”Dick started, because he wasn’t finished with her yet, but Damian already fired another blast. It caught her entirely—blasts of white crystals like snow charging at her, encasing her. She continued to try to move, crawling along the ground, arms dragging her—her body slowing and slowing as it was blasted by cold wind, the frost cover her in layer after layer, until she was finally frozen entirely. At the end of it all, the gun let out a weak puff of white air, depleted. Dick looked back at Damian, incredulously. He caught a hint of the boy’s face in the darkness but couldn’t read the expression on his face. He seemed almost emotionless. At once, Dick felt all of the frustration—the anger, the confusion, the fear, that had all culminated through the entire night—bubble up at once. “Why did you do that—”

He moved a step forward and at once, Damian turned toward him with a new expression. His eyes fiery. Before Dick could blink, the gun was replaced with a sword, and Damian was moving in on him—fast.

Dick struck first. Damian was staggered momentarily by the blow but rushed again.

“What are you _doing_?” Dick demanded.

“I heard you talking to her!” Damian fired back, and he charged in again, but Dick held him back, hand gripped hard around Damian’s wrist, keeping the blade at bay. “You were just going to go crawling back to them! And for _what_ —”

Dick felt his composure snap. “You already knew this was going to happen. You even _swore_ it would. A trade—me for your father, remember?”

There was a flicker of doubt in Damian’s eyes—but just as quickly, it was replaced with fire. Damian pushed back harder, the sudden strength forcing Dick back a step—the blade growing dangerously close.

There was a moment of realization—as if, suddenly, after all their conversations, it had only sunk in now that this was who Damian was. An assassin from a family of demons. And he had turned his gaze on Dick.

Dick’s hand finally slipped underneath Damian’s force. The sword was free to swing and Dick could do nothing but grit his teeth and take the blow, the steel coming down to bite through his armor. The cut dug deep into Dick’s chest, Dick’s blood spilling forth, hot and red on dark floors. Dick had to get out. He stumbled back towards the exit, though he didn’t dare turn his back on Damian.

“Don’t you get it—”Dick said when Damian charged after him again. “This is your chance. This is your _plan_ , coming to fruition. The Court still wants me. And with you killing that Talon, that puts _you_ in control—”

“I’ve _always_ been in control,” Damian growled back, and Dick doesn’t doubt him. Dick was losing blood fast. It was pouring onto the ground in thick droplets and every step pained Dick. He couldn’t keep dancing around Damian much longer—but confronting him seemed just as dangerous. He was wild, and while normally Dick could use that to his advantage, this time, such furiosity was intimidating. For once, Dick couldn’t predict him.

He kept trying to reason with him. “Give me to the Owls. Make it look like a trade—me, for your father. We’ll both get what we want without any blood being spilled.”

“ _You’re_ the one who doesn’t get it!” Damian said, raising the sword, and this time Dick couldn’t bite back the hiss of pain as the blade nicked his side. A shallow cut, but given that his front was already drenched in blood, it was an injury he didn’t need—and a clear indication that his dodging was getting shoddier. “I was _bluffing_! He’ll _never_ forgive me if I give you to them—”

“He won’t forgive you if you kill me either!” Dick said. He moved to dodge but slipped in his own blood. “What point is there to _killing_ me?”

The next few seconds happened in quick succession. He slipped, there was a strong hit to the gut bringing him down to his knees, and a heavy boot pushing down on the side of his head to pin him to the ground. Dick’s vision flashed red and black as the side of his head hit the floorboards, heartrate spiking and eyes widening as he caught the glimmer of steel raised above him, Damian’s face indiscernible underneath the shadows of his hood.

Then nothing.

The sword stilled, the sounds of their shallow breaths filling the space. Dick stared up at Damian, waiting for his move, head still pounding and cheek aching at the foot that kept him pinned to the ground. Damian finally lowered the sword, the shadows removed from his face. Clarity in his eyes.

Between catching his breath, Damian finally murmured in confession, “Because I wanted to.”

He stepped off of Dick but Dick didn’t dare to move. He eyed Damian carefully as he backed away. Damian’s gaze was focused in on the distance but he didn’t appear to be looking at anything at all, mind lost in the thought of this realization. But then his dark brows furrowed slightly, in a subtle move that made him look more like usual self, and he tossed the blade aside.

The sword clattered loudly, ringing in Dick’s ears, as it was cast aside. The pommel turned sideways, bronze eyes staring into Dick’s. Dick didn’t move, listening to Damian’s footsteps as he moved a few paces away, entering Dick’s vision only as he took a seat on the floor. He sat, shoulders subtly rising and falling as he caught his breath. And they stayed like that for awhile, in the near-darkness, neither one of them saying anything. Just staying in place, breathing.

Dick looked past the sword, his vision blurring. But even so, he knew it was there, within arm’s reach.

He thought about taking it.

 


	4. Gray

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the two fail to find Bruce and Damian nearly kills Dick, Dick thinks over the Talon's words and makes his final decision.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tags are updated. These should be the final tags. If you are worried about content, please review them before continuing this story. If any of the added tags upset anybody, I apologize ahead of time. But as stated at the beginning of the story, I was not sure what the final tags were going to be at the time I was writing this story. I was not trying to trick anybody.
> 
> This is the last chapter. However, the epilogue is pretty essential to the story. I should have that up in a few days.
> 
> As always, the beginning of the chapter will have a flashback before proceeding into the regular timeline.
> 
> Thank you all for your support. I'm sorry this took so long to update, this was a much bigger project than I had anticipated! I hope you enjoy.

 

The blood had saturated through Dick’s gloves. He felt it, hot and sticky against his skin. Breath short, heart racing, he struck the dagger in again. And again. And again. The blade was slipping from his slick fingers, sweat on his hairline, his breath growing haggard. The body underneath him chipped away with every cut. Until it was hardly recognizable. Until all he saw was red—

Footsteps, swift and quick. Before Dick could react, Talon yanked him to his feet by pulling his wrist. It wasn’t until that moment Dick realized his entire front was covered in blood. The dagger fell out of his hand and Dick felt this steadily increasing tightness in his chest. He couldn’t breathe. His face was hot. He didn’t realize he was crying until Talon roughly grabbed a hold of his chin, wiping the blood splatters and thick tears from his face. The glove on Talon’s palm was rough and textured, and it hurt a little with how much force he used to clean Dick’s face. Dick still didn’t stop though—each of his breaths shuddery, his nose beginning to water.

Dick was slowly aware of the dull pain in his arms. The first strike had hit bone, sending a shock up Dick’s tendon. And he hadn’t stopped. He kept stabbing and stabbing and now his arms were weak, hands trembling and fingers feeling almost swollen.

“We have to go,” Talon said shortly.

“Where?”  Dick managed to gasp.

“Back to the passageways, before anyone finds us. Now.”

It was an order. Still, shaking, Dick followed Talon. Letting him take the lead calmed Dick, somehow, though the enraged face of the man he had killed seemed to follow him.

The pathways were completely black. Dick accidentally tripped into Talon, which set him off—an act that probably felt overdue, if Dick was judging his tense silences correctly.

“Stop it,” Talon said in a low voice, roughly grabbing onto Dick’s shoulders. It shamed Dick. He felt like a child—a small child, rather. Reminiscent of days where his feelings were far more prone to explosion, and it could upset his father depending on how public they were and how immature Dick was acting. “If you don’t silence yourself, you won’t be able to concentrate. Someone might even hear you.”

Dick didn’t care about that. “He was going to _kill me_ —”

“ _You_ were going to kill _him_. And you did. You did what the Court ordered you to do.”

“I didn’t want to die,” Dick managed to choke out between heaves. There was a pause in the darkness. No breath to even greet Dick in return.

The hands on his shoulders tightened, eventually pushing Dick. Leading him toward the front.

“Lead,” Talon said. Dick paused for a moment, his breath coming to a stop. He didn’t know where to go—he was so busy thinking about everything that happened that he had lost track of where they were going, blindly following Talon. So he just started to walk through the darkness, along the uneven ground of the passageways. The longer he walked through the confined spaces, the more he felt his breathing begin to even.

* * *

 

They had returned to the Cave, where Alfred stitched up the cut inflicted on Dick. Pennyworth didn’t ask where it came from—didn’t ask about the blood that was on the sword, for that matter, and cleaned it all the same. If it bothered him, it was buried underneath more important concerns. He seemed to be only preoccupied in the details of their mission.

“He’s alive,” Alfred said as he stitched Dick’s wound. He never took his eyes off his work, even as he spoke. “That’s the important part.”

“We don’t know that. For all we know, they just have his body,” Damian said. He was leaning against the counter, which was piled with medical equipment. Highly advanced technology that made the Owls’ clinic look archaic in comparison. Though, Dick imagined that the Bats had much more use for such equipment than the Court, who depended on the electrum to do most of their medical work for them.

“They want me to kill him. To prove myself,” Dick said simply. He noticed the tension in Pennyworth’s hand, fingers tightening on the needle and the placement on Dick’s flesh that kept him closed. But the butler said nothing.

Damian didn’t look in Dick’s direction. He stared off, no particular emotion in his face, gaze stedfast. “He’s in the Court’s hands. Dead or alive, he needs to be _here_.”

Damian suddenly moved, pushing himself off the counter and taking off. He still had injuries that hadn’t been tended to but he took off anyways, moving in the direction of the computer. Pennyworth’s head turned as he followed Damian’s path and he looked ready to follow but there was still the stitches in Dick’s chest that needed to be completed.

When he was finished with Dick, Pennyworth went to go speak with Damian. Dick pulled on a shirt that Alfred had set aside for him and looked around the Cave idly. He was surprised by how familiar it seemed for him now. Eventually, he picked himself up—mindful of his wounds, he walked slowly toward the cell. Before he could enter, he heard a voice.

“Where are you going?” Dick turned to look at Damian who was approaching him, leaving Pennyworth to continue their work on the computers. Damian had this expectant look on his face. Dick wasn’t quite sure how to respond.

“To sleep,” Dick said, not sure what the holdup was.

“We're not finished.”

Dick felt the last bit of his patience began to waver. “Really? Do you plan to just freeze and drag back every Talon, one by one, to your cave in a single night?”

“No. The freezegun is still recharging,” Damian said simply, as if he _wasn't_ standing there with dried blood on him. “We need to talk about what happened in the museum. Are joining the Court or not?”

“What do _you_ think?” Dick said, annoyed, and he turned but Damian, just as quickly, stepped in front of his path. Blocking the entryway into the cell. Dick never thought he'd actually be fighting his way into that damned place—maybe he was losing his mind.

“I want you to forget what happened.”

“You almost _killing_ me?” Dick said, eyes widening. He shook his head to himself, scoffing lightly. “I suppose that's not a secret you want getting out. Your butler is willing to keep his mouth shut but if you ever get your father back and he _finds out_ —”

Damian looked frustrated. “That is it, yes. But that's not all of it. You're letting this impede your decision. You're letting that Talon get inside of your head. You _don't_ want to go back.”

At that, Dick paused. This wasn't how he was expecting the conversation to turn. They were back to this again, even after everything Damian had done—after what he _almost_ did. “You've been wanting to get rid of me since the very beginning—”

“Because you were a distraction to my father—”

“Because you were jealous,” Dick translated. Damian glared at him but continued on.

“But I don't think you should go back there. You keep saying that you're with them because you made a choice. You did make a choice. Maybe you didn’t regret it, and maybe you’re a horrible person for not regretting it—but that choice doesn’t have to define you. You can redeem yourself.”

Surprisingly sentimental words. Damian’s uncharacteristic concern was so odd that Dick almost felt like he _had_ to believe him.

“Do you really feel that way?” Dick asked, looking at him.

“I have to,” Damian said, unflinching. Dick almost rolled his eyes.

“This isn't about me, this is about _you_. You're just trying to alleviate your guilt for almost going back to your old ways.” Dick shook his head. “I'm not your pet experiment on the ways of redemption. And I'm sick of being involved in this ongoing drama between you and your father. Now let me sleep.”

“I'm telling you, that's not all of it—”

“You're not a hero,” Dick said sharply. In a lower tone, he added, “But you want to be, don't you? You want to pretend. To make him happy. To make him proud. To be a part of his family.”

“No,” Damian said. “Because I want it.”

Dick wasn't sure if he believed that. In that moment in the museum, with Damian’s sword raised above him, he had this look in his eyes—an intent to kill. The assassin was still lurking somewhere inside of Damian—and while Damian had managed to pull that murderous instinct back, how much longer could he keep up the farce? How much time would pass before he slipped?

“You called the labyrinth a part of your _trials_. For me, with the League of Assassins, it was the _Year of Blood_.”

“Fancy name,” Dick said, but he was more focused on the best way to maneuver himself toward the lousy bed.

Damian ignored him, continuing. “I had to prove myself to my mother that I could lead the assassins. I had one year to complete all of my mother’s tests—she sent me everywhere around the world. Before I was ten, I killed politicians, families, monsters—”

Dick’s brain was trying to wrap itself around this information, but he was initially fixated on one thing, “ _Lead_ the assassins?” When Damian failed to respond, Dick filled in the blanks. His mind travelled back to the demon’s head. Suddenly, the lineage made sense—and yet, it didn’t. “Wow, when you said that your father was Batman and your mother was an assassin, I thought that was foolish. But now I realize that your father isn’t just foolish, he’s a complete _idiot_ —”

“I did tell you that it was complicated,” Damian cut in, scowling.

“How many?” Dick asked.

“How many what?” Damian asked.

“Tests.”

Damian faltered to come up with a response. Dick frowned, Damian’s silence speaking for itself. He wasn’t failing to answer because he couldn’t find the words to explain this ‘Year of Blood’—he was failing to answer because he didn’t have the number off the top of his head.

“How many kills?” Dick asked anyway. At this, Damian’s silence seemed more purposeful. His gaze was diverted. Dick answered for him. “Too many to count.”

“It was never about a headcount. The point was to complete my tasks. After awhile, it all just blurred together. I never cared to keep track and even if I did—”

“Enough,” Dick said. He had no desire to hear about it—but he thought about it anyways. At ten, Dick’s parents had died. He never kept track of the people he killed either—but if he stopped to think about it, he could come up with a number. He couldn’t imagine _not_ _knowing_. Before his tenth birthday, he had travelled the world with his parents to perform shows—not proving his worth by collecting heads.

They had less in common than Dick thought, and yet, he felt like he knew Damian even better now.

“At some point, I realized that killing wasn’t what I wanted to do. It was something I _could_ do, and something I could do well, but it wasn’t what I wanted. So when I met my father, coming to his side was easy—even though things here couldn’t be any more convoluted or unusual. These trials are _your_ Year of Blood. The trials are a setup for what the rest of your life with the Court is going to be like. If that doesn’t convince you to quit, then you’re right. You have made your choice.”

“I have,” Dick shot back. Damian gave him one measured look before stepping out of the way, giving Dick room to enter the cell. Dick had a hard time taking a step toward it, feeling like their conversation wasn’t quite done.

“So where do we go from here? Now that you’ve made up your mind,” Damian said.

“We go back to your plan. You trade me for him.” When Damian looked at him curiously, Dick suddenly felt uncomfortable. “It’d be better for me to leave in peace. There’s no point in fighting my way out—I can save that for _after_ my trials.”

“That’s presuming you could fight your way out anyways,” Damian said. Dick just let the argument slide, learning by now that there was no reasoning with Damian’s arrogance. He had a point anyways—he was exhausted, trapped in some cave, with no weapons. Damian crossed his arms, face suddenly lost in thought. “Last time we tried to get close, they _attacked_ us without hesitation. I can’t imagine they have a _fax number_ for us to exchange terms.” Damian then cocked his head to the side, adding, “Or more appropriately, a messenger bird.”

“We could bait them out again,” Dick said simply. “We’ll return to the passageways, try to break our way in. And if they attack us again, we’ll give them our terms.”

“They won’t listen.”

“Do you have another idea?”

Damian sighed in response. Before Dick could add something else, a voice suddenly cut in.

“Master Damian—”Alfred started, urgent, and Damian immediately moved to join him at the computers. “Look at this.”

Though he was unprompted, Dick found himself moving towards the computers anyways. When he looked, he saw a whole display of different camera feeds. He slowly narrowed his eyes in confusion—finally realizing the dozens and dozens of images being played on the screen were from all over. The sewers, the alleys, the docks—every nook and cranny of Gotham, and the Cave had its eyes on it all.

He had heard the media stories and studied the accounts of criminals who fought Batman, but he never understood the _fear_ they described until that moment. He felt an unfamiliar chill run down his spine. All this time, he thought the Owls were the only ones who had their eyes on the city—but they certainly had never known about _this_ , otherwise they wouldn’t have allowed it. Batman, and all of his obsession, would have been eliminated years ago if the Court had known about this. It was a miracle that the Court hadn’t been spotted by Batman earlier.

The focus wasn’t on the city, however. A display was pulled up, larger than the others. It showed a house, brightly lit with fine, polished floors and beautiful decor. Dick wasn’t sure what the two were observing until Alfred rewound the footage, showing—

“ _Vermin_!” Damian cursed when Alfred paused the video, showing a man dressed in a familiar uniform. A Talon, stalking through the room. “When was this?”

“From ten minutes ago,” Alfred said, shaking his head in apparent disbelief. “However they managed to get past the security systems, I’ll never know—”

“I swear if they touch anything they aren’t supposed to—if they hurt Titus, I’ll— _urgh_ , where’s the freezegun? I’ll just take care of him myself.” Damian was already rushing toward the wall of equipment, yanking open drawers.

The conversation and Damian’s irrational behavior was lost on Dick—until Damian had grabbed his things and started to rush toward the staircase, the very one that Dick had never been allowed to travel up. Dick glanced once more at the displays on the screen, feeling a small sense of disbelief. It all dawned on him at once.

The Cave was connected to their _house_.

Ignoring the ridiculousness of this fact, Dick thought about the Talon roaming around Wayne manor. The Court already knew Batman’s identity and everyone knew that Bruce lived on Wayne estates. However, sending a Talon into enemy territory just felt _desperate_. The Court was slipping up, to the point of near-embarrassment.

Dick refocused himself. He ran after Damian, ignoring Alfred’s protests. Damian stopped on the staircase in time to look back, spotting Dick and immediately frowning.

“Stay _here_ ,” Damian snapped.

“This is our chance—we’ll use him as a messenger and propose our deal to the Court,” Dick said.

“Because that worked _so well_ last time,” Damian said sarcastically. He turned and moved up a step but Dick grabbed him by the arm. Instead of yanking his arm back and retaliating, Damian just looked back.

“At the very least, you can't fight him alone—”

“You saw my Mr. Freeze imitation on the last zombie assassin. The gun is recharged well enough and is ready to go. If you come with, you'll either get in the way or choose the worst possible time to turn on me—”

“Make up your mind,” Dick said, frustrated. “Am I a hindrance or an enemy?”

“You can be both.”

“We're on the same side until the deal is made. Once I'm turned in to the Court, _then_ we'll go our separate ways.”

Damian finally took back his arm. He just huffed to himself and hurried up the steps. Deciding that the answer wasn't a _no_ , Dick followed after him, though he felt some pain where his chest was cut—a reminder that he had to be careful.

At the top of the long staircase was a narrow crevice, surrounded by the natural rock walls of the cave. Not too far in was a wooden panel. Damian sprung it open and Dick followed.

They were in a room. Through the dim lighting, Dick spotted a fireplace and mahogany tables. He saw sofas with plush seats and pillows, a grand piano in the corner, painted portraits on the walls—everything screamed of a luxury that Dick had never known. Even knowing about Bruce Wayne’s wealth didn’t lessen his surprise, it was hard to believe that this is where the Bats _slept_ every night.

Damian walked cautiously into the manor, his footsteps silent. He kept a watchful eye on the manor, careful to not leave his blindspots unchecked, with a freezegun in his hands and a sword strapped to his back. Dick kept behind him, feeling vulnerable without his armor and weapons, but not afraid. He kept his senses keen, trying to spot anything in the darkness.

Damian checked around the corner of an archway. He motioned Dick to follow him, where they entered a front room. Dick’s gaze lingered on a tall portrait of a man and woman, his eyes travelling upward when he noticed something in his peripherals.

“Damian—”he started but it was too late.

Leaping off the chandelier was their assassin. Damian narrowly moved out of the way in time. The Talon landed on the ground before Damian instead—kicking at Damian’s legs and tripping him. The freezegun went sliding across the polished floors. The Talon and Damian struggled, fighting on the ground. Dick moved in to help when he heard a sudden loud sound. Barking. Dick, momentarily startled, looked up in time to see a dog sprinting in from the other room. A vague memory returned to Dick.

“Toto?” he said idly. In the dim lighting, Dick almost didn’t register the animal as a dog—he was massive, easily the largest dog Dick had ever seen. Damian’s words about his pet being able to _deal with ruffians_ turned out to be true, and Talon was easily knocked off of Damian when the great dane rushed him.

Dick set his eyes on the freezegun. He moved towards it, the chaotic sounds of fighting and barking behind him. He picked it up but when he tried to aim it, both Damian and the dog were too close to the target. Talon had a hold of Damian, Damian struggling against his grip, and when the canine bit down on the Talon’s leg, the assassin gave a strong kick that finally knocked the animal off of him.

Dick rushed in, taking the dog’s spot and trying to grab Talon from behind. Damian wrenched himself free. Immediately, Talon elbowed Dick—and Dick, still exhausted from the night, easily lost his grip on the assassin. The Talon went running, trying to gain some distance. Dick was already out of breath but he reacted anyways—but when he aimed and fired the gun, nothing happened.

“The safety’s on—”Damian started, grabbing the gun from him. Dick handed it over, leaving Damian to figure it out, and chased after Talon throughout the manor. He followed him into what appeared to be a kitchen, from what he could make out in the faint light. He moved deeper into the kitchen, carefully now, his guard back up—he heard a sound and looked, but realized too late it was a distraction.

An arm wrapped around his neck. Dick forcefully backed up, slamming Talon into the counter, but the assassin felt no pain and did not let go. The arm was pressing against Dick’s throat, trying to choke him, and Dick remembered his training and tried to stay calm. He used all of his tricks to try to free himself from the grip but Talon was resolute and his breath was growing shorter with every second he was locked in Talon’s hold.

Damian entered through the doorway, freezegun in hand. But when he raised the gun, he and Dick made eye contact, and the pup lowered his aim.

“ _Damnit_ —”

He rushed in to help but Dick’s hand found its way onto the kitchen counter, blindly reaching on the surface. He felt his hand land on a knife block—he grabbed what he could, thrusting it behind him. It was a clumsy hit but it landed nonetheless.

The Talon couldn’t feel pain—but the knife had dug its way into his mask, right into the eye, blinding him and catching him offguard, just long enough for Dick to pull out of his grasp. Dick immediately slid across the floor, getting himself out of range. Damian took the opportunity and fired the gun as soon as Dick ducked out of the way.

Dick looked back—the shot from the freezegun had caught the Talon’s arm. A trail of ice led to the counter, sealing the limb in place. Damian seemed ready to shoot the gun again but Dick hurried and got up, grabbing Damian by the wrist.

“Wait, he's frozen—we can talk to him,” Dick said.

“You really are a hindrance,” Damian growled.

“But not an enemy,” Dick said.

“ _Tt_. Not _yet_.”

They both stepped toward the Talon. His arm was frozen to the counter and a kitchen knife was still sticking out of his eye—an almost amusing image, if Dick was honest. The Talon didn’t struggle. He pulled on his arm once to test the ice’s strength but when it didn’t budge, he conceded.

“Traitor,” he immediately spat in Dick’s direction.

Dick ignored the slight. “The last Talon offered me a deal—the Court wants me to return, in exchange for me becoming a Talon and killing the Waynes.”

“You forfeited that opportunity the minute you attacked her _and_ me,” the Talon shot back.

“I want you to go back to the Court. I want you to tell them that the pup is keeping me hostage and will only release me if I’m traded for Batman—”

“You don’t look like a hostage to me—and that’s exactly what I’m going to tell them.”

Damian poked the Talon in the forehead with the barrel of the freezegun. “That’s assuming you’re going to have the opportunity to tell them _anything_. If you refuse, you’re going to spend the rest of eternity as an _ice sculpture_ in my father’s kitchen—”

“All you have to do is pass on the message. We’ll do the trade on the rooftop of the Old Gotham train station, the one across from the clocktower. Tomorrow, at midnight. Me, in exchange for Batman,” Dick reiterated.

Talon was silent for a moment. Reluctantly, he said, “Fine. Your message will be carried on. Now release me.”

Damian went and unsheathed the sword from his back, the blade making a light sound as it was drawn.

“What are you doing?” Dick asked.

“He wants to be released,” Damian said, hands on the hilt.

Dick felt frustrated. He was already on rocky terms with the Court. “Can you do it without hacking off his limb?”

“I’m not going to grab a hairdryer and unfreeze him, if that’s what you’re asking,” Damian said, balancing the sword over Talon’s limb, measuring the distance of his swing. “The bastard broke into my father’s home and ruined his kitchen.” He sighed a little, raising the sword. “Besides, I’m sure he’ll live.”

 

Dick stared at the face of the clock, perched in its tower high above Gotham. Another minute ticked on. The Court would arrive at any moment, it was all a matter of waiting.

Staring at the clock gave Dick something to look at. He hadn’t glanced at Damian once since they made it to the rooftop, and they hadn’t spoken for longer still. Dick knew that Damian wasn’t happy with this decision—it was a last resort to getting his father back. If it was up to Damian, he’d rush the Court’s passageways, kick in the faces of every single Owl, and return home with his father—like a true hero.

Dick truly believed that.

Instead, the best Damian could do was trade Dick for his father, a fact that would save Bruce’s life but damn any chances Damian had of redeeming himself in his father’s eyes.

Dick heard the sound of a door, coming from the rooftop enclosure. Both he and Damian turned, watching as an ensemble approached them. The grandmaster’s black dress, matching her mask, rippled through the rooftop winds. Walking next to her was the Talon from the previous night, a few Owls in their standard white masks, and a man with a black bag on his head and a familiar symbol on his chest. Once they were all lined up, the Talon shoved Bruce down to his knees, where he stayed as still as a statue between the groups.

Dick felt his heart skip when he noticed something curious about the Talon. He was certain it was the same Talon—the uniforms were the same, the height, the weight—

But he had both arms.

He wondered how this was possible. Dick had watched Damian and Alfred burn the limb and while Talons could regenerate wounds, they certainly couldn’t regenerate entire limbs. Dick glanced over at Damian. The pup’s gaze was steady but he could see the way he looked at the Talon. It was all the confirmation Dick needed to know that he wasn’t imagining things. Still, neither one spoke. It was a question for another day.

“Hello, Gray Son,” the grandmaster greeted, once they were all face to face. Even behind the mask, Dick could feel her eyes on him. She didn’t appear interested in Damian at all. “Are you ready to come back?”

“He’s not going anywhere until you hand over my f— _Batman_ ,” Damian said, voice low.

“I think Gray Son is free to do as he likes. I see no chains on him—a mistake on your part.”

The grandmaster spoke as if she wasn’t expecting this fact. So, the Talon had followed through and delivered the news properly. But it was plain to see now that nothing bound Dick to Damian. While Dick supposed he could have continued the lie, the important thing was just to get the Court to call off their Talons long enough to listen to their terms. Now that they were all face to face, there was no point in continuing to pretend that Damian had Dick hostage.

“He’s right,” Dick said. The black mask turned towards him sharply. Dick stood his ground, continuing, “I’m not going anywhere until Batman is handed over.”

The grandmaster paused—Dick could sense her surprise. He noticed the subtle turn of heads behind her—the Owls glancing at each other questioningly. The only one that seemed unfazed was the Talon.

“The Bats are our enemies. It was our understanding that you were taken by them against your will—”

“I was,” Dick said. “I want to complete my trials and when I do, I will follow the Court’s instructions in killing the Bats myself. But betraying the agreement and killing Batman now would be dishonorable—”

“‘Dishonorable’?” the grandmaster said with a sudden scoff. Dick felt taken aback by her behavior. He was only used to coldness from the Owls, not this sort of rashness, and he was even more surprised when she started to rant on. “What’s _dishonorable_ is your lack of loyalty. You should be coming to us _willingly_ —not on some _condition_ , especially when it involves sparing your enemy.”

“I would be happy to kill for my Court. I would be happy to kill _all_ of them,” the Talon spoke up, pulling on Bruce’s bonds, tilting Bruce’s head back and revealing a sliver of his neck between the bag and his uniform. The perfect position to have his throat slit.

“No,” the grandmaster said at once, almost too quickly. Dick could sense her unease. “We’ll do the trade. Gray Son will be tasked with killing the Bats anyhow. He can prove his loyalty then. In the end, whether it’s by his hands or another of the Talon’s, the Bats _will_ die eventually.” She finally nodded toward the Talon. “Hand him over.”

The Talon pulled off the bag. Dick found himself glancing at Damian, gauging his reaction, but the pup just stared with a hard expression, unwilling to show that he was in any way fazed. He was still in the presence of his enemies, after all, and couldn’t afford to show any weakness.

Bruce’s face was familiar—it seemed all too similar to Dick’s when he saw his reflection after the labyrinth. The man looked considerably aged, his eyes bloodshot and sunken, his gaze unseeing, and his frown heavyset. And there was something a little sickening and sad to it all—to see such a proud and powerful man on his knees before his son, his expressionless face speaking more tales in its vacancy than it could if he had cried from relief or joy. But instead he sat there, bound and making no attempt to move or even blink. Dick couldn’t imagine what prison or torture that the Court must have forced Batman to experience in the weeks that had passed.

The Talon undid the bonds and pulled Bruce to his feet. Bruce seemed unsteady but he moved towards Damian, who was still throughout the entire unveiling.  Dick took his cue and moved toward the Owls without even glancing at Bruce as they passed one another.

Once on the other side, Dick stopped to look back at where he was. Damian was watching his father carefully, almost anxiously—but it seemed as if he had felt Dick watching him, his gaze finally flickering in Dick’s direction. It was a strange moment when their eyes locked. Dick wasn’t sure what to feel, especially knowing that this was the moment where they would part ways for good. He felt no impulse to go back to Damian’s side, and yet he felt this pleased satisfaction in knowing that Bruce and Damian were reunited. Their locked gazes had this strange sense of mutual respect.

Dick wondered if that respect would still be there the next time they met.

They parted their separate ways. As Dick walked along with the Owls, he asked, “I want to know—what happened to my mentor?”

It was a question that had bothered him for a long time. The grandmaster continued to lead the way, her heeled boots clacking along the concrete.

“He disobeyed our orders. When we ordered him to kill the Bat, he captured him instead. He told us that killing the Bat might result in the pup retaliating and killing you in revenge.”

At this, Dick felt confused. They _had_ kept the Bat alive, so he failed to see the issue. “Isn’t that what you wanted? Why punish Talon, then?”

“No,” the grandmaster said, stopping in place. She faced Dick fully. “We ordered him to kill the Bat anyways and he refused.”

Dick stared, feeling suddenly cold.

“You’re a valuable asset to our side, Gray Son. A true prodigy. As a Talon, you’ll be near unstoppable. Sparing the Bat today will mean nothing to us, because in the end, you will be ours to use _forever_. But don’t think for a goddamned second that just because you made some demands tonight, that it suddenly means that the Court is subservient to you,” the grandmaster said icily, word by word. She moved in closer. Close enough where Dick could see her eyes faintly underneath the shadows of her mask. “It doesn’t matter how strong you are—a Talon that doesn’t follow its orders is _useless_ to the Court. You _will_ follow through on your promise. You _will_ end the bloodline.”

There was a measured silence between the two. Finally, Dick bowed his head.

“As the Court wishes,” he said simply.

 

The smell of the bay carried over onto the grounds, the murky stench overriding faint memories of his childhood. He remembered the smell of popcorn, elephants, and freshly cut grass.

Dick climbed over the chainlink fence, easily hopping over it. A brief memory returned to him—he and the other circus children, climbing on the metal links like it was a playground, because in those days and with their talents, it was. They’d climb until their hands were dirty. They tie notes and ribbons and weeds and straws of hay and flowers to the links, before running off and causing mayhem somewhere else.

The circus grounds had long been abandoned. The death of the Graysons were just a catalyst in a long line of events that led toward the collapse of Haly’s Circus. Between being pushed around by the mafia, the closing of Amusement Mile, and the overall growing disinterest in families visiting the circus, Haly’s finally stopped touring. They remained a staple in Gotham summers for a few years—before finally shutting down for good.

The circus grounds were still in Haly’s name but nothing had been done with the space since its closing—turning it into the world’s strangest ghost town. The buildings and facilities were stripped bare, the imprints of old signs still on its walls though they had faded over time. But Dick could still envision each one, his mind puzzling in the lights and colors and banners in each place.

Dick walked down the line of empty buildings, remembering hot summer days—the type where the sun shined so bright it hurt the eyes. The kind where sweat and heat came off the crowds of people—because there really _were_ crowds back then.

Miraculously, while most of the rides had been packed up and carried away, the ferris wheel remained. He remembered hearing his parents tell a story about how their first kiss had been on a ferris wheel, and Dick had decided that his would have to be the same, so he dragged his friend Raya—his determined soulmate, at the time—onto the ride with him. But earlier in the day, Dick had stuffed his face with cotton candy, and the two had already ridden on the spinning teacups, so when their cart finally made it to the top of the wheel, the combination of nerves and bad choices led to Dick puking about two hundred feet.

Dick wondered briefly what happened to all of them. His friends, his parents’ friends, the patrons, the animals… all of them. Did they wonder where he had gone? Were they still performing somewhere else? Or did they move onto new things? New jobs, hobbies, families?

Dick heard noise in the distance. Faint voices. He stilled in the darkness, peering around the corner of a building to get a better look. Standing near the base of the ferris wheel was a group of people. The light from their cell phones revealed their faces—they seemed young, around their teens. In the midst of all the shouts and giggles, Dick heard a familiar clacking sound. A ball in a spray can.

Dick saw movement in the darkness—but the kids were taken by surprise, jumping in place when a strong flashlight turned on, flooding them in light. Dick started to move in closer, their words becoming clearer.

“You’re trespassing on private property—”

“Is this old guy serious?”

“You have to leave, _now_ —”

“What’s the big deal? No one comes here anyways—”

“I’ll call the cops—”

“Like hell,” one of them said, followed by the hiss of the spraycan. The man stumbled backwards, dropping his flashlight in the process. Another kid kicked him down and the group prepared to run.

“Let’s go!”

“Wait, take his wallet—”

“What about the police?”

“He didn’t call them yet, idiot. Fuck him. He’s already down, just take his money—”

Before the kid could grab onto the old man, Dick had already closed in. He grabbed onto his wrist, the spraycan falling out of his hand and landing on the gravel. A cell phone turned towards Dick’s direction but he kicked it out of the teen’s hand, sending a wave of panic throughout the group—they ran off. As for the would-be robber, he struggled and cursed against Dick’s grasp. Dick twisted his hold, and the boy screamed as his wrist was broken.

Dick was at a loss of what to do with him next. He even wondered why he had bothered to interfere at all—it mattered little to him if the man’s wallet was stolen.

Dick settled on letting go—pushing him toward the ground. The kid landed in the gravel but just as quickly, scrambled back up, holding onto his wrist as he took off. He disappeared into the darkness.

Dick turned towards his real goal—the old man on the ground. The man scrambled for his flashlight, shining it on Dick—but the man was not startled by his appearance, as Dick expected. The mask on his eyes and harness of weapons did not scare him away.

“It’s you,” he said, with no sense of surprise.

“It’s me,” Dick said.

 

Mr. Haly lived in a cramped trailer on the outskirts of the circus grounds. Once inside, Dick pulled off his mask, taking in his surroundings with naked eyes. The dimly lit trailer was piled high with junk—filled with old clippings of the circus, with acts that Dick recognized and didn’t recognize. And trash—coughdrop wrappers and crumpled up fast food bags and unwashed coffee mugs. The trailer had this overall musty, indistinguishable smell.

Dick stopped at a certain flyer on the wall of the trailer, a familiar brown-haired boy looking back at him, with a surprisingly familiar shit-eating smirk. The boy’s limbs hugged his body, confined by a series of impossible looking straps and buckles. The top of the flyer read: _HALY’S CIRCUS INTRODUCES: THE WORLD’S YOUNGEST HOUDINI, CALVIN ROSE_!

“You wouldn’t remember him. You were very young,” Haly said, when he caught Dick staring.

“I know him,” Dick said. Haly nodded in understanding, gaze lowering.

“Right,” he said. “I suppose you would.” He nodded toward the table in the center of the trailer. “Take a seat.”

Dick sat at the booth, the plastic seat squeaking underneath him. Dick watched Haly carefully. Every step the old man took seemed to be a process—careful and measured. Shoulders hunched, hips unmoving. His clothes were too loose for his frame and when he tossed his cap on the counter, his head was spotted with a few wisps of white hair. He came back from the fridge with two beers.

“I don’t drink,” Dick said, but the can slid across the tabletop anyways.

Haly gave a heavy sigh as he sat down across from him, the mere act of sitting seeming like a great task in itself. Dick barely recognized the man in front of him. His smile had faded to heavy wrinkles around his eyes and mouth. His kind eyes looked as dull and faded as any Talon’s that Dick had seen.

“I’m sorry. This place is cramped.”

Dick stared idly at the beer, the flickering ceiling lamp reflecting orange light on the aluminum can. “It doesn’t bother me.”

“I suppose you’re used to confined spaces. Between your folks and all your visiting friends, the Grayson trailer was always crowded,” Haly said with a small smile.

Dick hadn’t even thought of that. His mind had travelled elsewhere—to dark corridors, both walls pushed against his shoulders, jagged edges and cobwebs brushing against him. Spaces so dark he could hardly see, and passageways so tight he had to hold his breath.

“I have some questions I need to ask you.”

“Yours or the Court’s?”

Dick suspected Haly knew, considering he wasn’t shocked by the appearance of a person who had been declared dead. “You knew them.”

“Not much. The Court and Haly’s Circus has always been intertwined, even before my time. But they rarely tell me anything.”

“What did my parents know about them?”

Haly shifted in the plasticky seat. He pulled at the beer tab, letting it snap open. With a shaky hand, he raised the beer to his thin lips and sipped. He continued, “The Court would visit the circus once a year to scout young talents for their Talons. They were interested in you ever since you first came to this circus with your parents—as an _infant_. They watched you every year. When you were of prime age, they confronted your parents about taking you in. They promised them money, protection, power—”

“And what did they say?”

“They told them to buzz off, of course,” Haly said, in a voice that almost reminded Dick of younger days—until Haly cleared his throat with a thick cough. Haly continued, “You were their son and they wouldn’t let anyone take you away. But then the Court offered them something else.”

Dick had a feeling what. “The electrum tooth.”

Haly looked troubled for a moment. He shifted in place. “You have to understand that both your paternal and maternal grandparents died young. Both Mary and John came from lines of families of people who went missing or died at early ages. The fear of death was _real_ to them. So when the Court offered a way for you to live longer—and to live without _pain_ —they allowed the procedure. The Court placed the tooth in you and left it at that, and never appeared before your parents again. At least, as far as I know. John and Mary didn’t tell me anything about the Owls—what I learned, I had to learn from the Court.”

“I see,” Dick said quietly, not sure what to make of this news. “But my parents didn’t want me to become one of _them_. They _kept_ me.”

“I can’t say what they intended for you,” Haly said, leaning back. “I think they were hoping it’d never come to that. I think _everybody_ thought the three of you were going to live the rest of your lives together, swinging on trapezes.”

There was a moment of silence as Haly took a drink from his beer. When he set it back down, he looked up at Dick. There was something somber in his gaze.

“I never got the chance to apologize to you.” His brow furrowed. “If I had gone to the police sooner—or if I had just given up the damned circus, you parents would be alive, and you—”

“Tony Zucco killed my parents. That’s it,” Dick said shortly. “What’s done is done. I can’t go back.”

“I see,” Haly said. “And what now?”

“That’s the question,” Dick confessed.

“I can’t help you any further,” Haly said, frowning. “I have no idea what your parents planned for you. I can only imagine they’d want you to be alive, happy and healthy.”

“Do you think the electrum tooth was part of that? Me being alive, happy and healthy?”

“Getting old isn’t easy,” Haly said gravely, without any sense of humor. “But _no pain_ doesn’t necessarily _painless_. With the Court, you can live forever—but is that happiness?”

“It was, for awhile,” Dick said. He thought back to his days as a boy—lost and alone. The relief he felt that day when Talon gave him a _choice_. Maybe things hadn’t been glamorous, but he wondered about all the different ways his path could have gone. Maybe a continued life at the circus, or adopted by a foster family, or maybe even a life with Bruce if things had gone the way the Bat had planned it all those years ago. But the _purpose_ in his life that the Court had granted him had saved him from a very dark place.

But now that he knew all of the possibilities—now that he had uncovered lies and new truths alike—he still wasn’t quite sure if the path of a Talon was right for him.

“I’d like to show you something,” Haly said, interrupting his thoughts.

Haly got up, heading toward the back of the trailer. Dick followed him to the room. By the cot, Haly plucked a picture off of the stand. He handed it toward Dick but Dick did not take it, he simply stared at it.

He had seen this photo before. A fuzzy, black and gray of two boys standing in front of a circus sign.

“Your grandfather—the first John Grayson—was like an older brother to me. He was delivered to this circus as a baby, and my father raised him. Dad _insisted_ that he become a juggler—and John could have done it. Everyone in the circus loved John and he learned so _fast_ —”Haly snapped his fingers to emphasize his words”—that he knew just about every talent in the circus. Juggling, acrobats, magic tricks—you name it and he _knew_ it. But he _loved_ the trapeze, and no matter how much Dad insisted on juggling, John just did his own thing.”

Dick stared at the photo long and hard. He knew Haly was giving it to him but he couldn’t bring himself to take it.

He looked into Haly’s eyes.

“Jack Haly. The Court of Owls has sentenced you to die.”

Haly just stared back at him. Dick grabbed both daggers from his belt and crossed them on Haly’s throat. The blood gushed out instantly and Haly’s body collapsed. The fallen body still twitched with life, red pulsing from him and onto the ground.

Dick kept his gaze averted, feeling a tightness in his chest. As he stared away from Haly, his eyes landed instead on the photo that had fallen to the ground. The print was covered in blood, so saturated that he could no longer tell Jack and John apart.

 

After disposing of Haly’s body and cleaning the blood from his uniform, Dick returned to the Court’s meeting room, as instructed, to make his reports. He was summoned to their conference room and it seemed more crowded than usual. Everyone had come to see him after completing his last trial. The grandmaster seemed more than pleased by Dick’s success.

“Good work,” she told him. “Now, you’ve proven you can work for us again.”

Dick wondered if that was the only reason why the Court sentenced Haly’s death. It seemed almost personal. He did not question it aloud. His tone even, he asked, “Now that I’ve completed my trials, when will I become a Talon?”

“You still have one more task,” she said. Dick’s expression was undeterred—though questions raced through his mind. “You still have to surpass your mentor. That was the deal you both paid for the price of training you and for your revenge on the Zuccos all of those years ago.”

Dick wasn’t sure how to process this information. Based on their last conversation, he had been convinced that the Court had placed the Talon in stasis—or worse, destroyed him for his disobedience in killing Batman. “Where is he?”

“You will know tomorrow night,” she said simply. “By then, you will both have had a full day to be prepared.”

Dick didn’t trust this news. The grandmaster’s decision to allow him to rest felt less generous and more suspicious. One moment, the Court was rushing to get Dick through his trials, and now they were insisting on giving him a full day’s rest. Still, with no option of questioning it or opposing, he simply nodded.

“As the Court wishes. Should I go now?”

The Owl, with long false nails, tapped her fingers on the table once. “There is one more thing.”

Dick tensed, not liking the way she tilted her head at him. “What is it?”

“What do you know about the labyrinth?”

Dick was silenced, unsure of how to answer that question. He took one glance around the room. The Owls were all watching him, hanging on his answer. Even the furnishings of the room—the paintings, the Roman bust on the fireplace, all seemed to have their line of vision on him. Dick’s heart began to beat faster.

“I know the Court uses it for all their disciples—”

“No,” she interrupted, catching him offguard. “I meant the story of the labyrinth. Daedalus’ labyrinth.”

“I know that Theseus navigated the labyrinth with a red thread that Ariadne gave him,” Dick said, feeling cautious. The Owl simply stared at him.

“Do you know about the minotaur?”

“Only some.”

“The minotaur was half man, half beast. The Ancient Greeks had many monsters made from parts—harpies, satyrs, chimeras… they all vary in origins but the minotaur was specifically designed by Daedalus. Daedalus was a genius in every right—creating labyrinths and monsters. But he was also a very ambitious man, and at times, this caused problems.”

Dick didn’t dare to say anything. The eyes of every Owl was still turned towards him, though the grandmaster was the only one speaking. Every one of them were still around the table, watching as if they were gauging his every reaction.

“Daedalus knew too much about the Labyrinth. And so, both he and his son Icarus were trapped in a tower. But Daedalus could not accept being imprisoned—so using his genius, he devised a way to make him and his son fly. And as the story goes—the one that everyone knows—is that Icarus flew on wings made of wax and feathers, flew too close to the sun, and plummeted to his death.” The Owl folded her hands, and seemed to lean slightly in Dick’s direction. “Now, some might say this was Daedalus’ fault. If it wasn’t for creating the labyrinth, he and Icarus would have never been imprisoned. If he hadn’t tried to defy his fate, he and Icarus would still be alive.”

At that, the Owl stopped. The hollow eyes of her mask seemed to stare into Dick, expecting him to respond.

Dick took a moment to choose his words carefully. “Perhaps. But Daedalus warned Icarus not to fly too low, otherwise the sea would dampen the wings. And he also warned him not to fly too high, otherwise the sun would melt the wax.”

“I think you’re right,” she said. She visibly relaxed in her chair, and waved her hand as if shooing him away. “You can go now.”

 

Dick hopped the black iron fence. He had to be careful to avoid the aim of the cameras on the lawn. He quickly hurried across the cobblestone path toward the front door, where he opened the lock. He entered the house, two pairs of painted eyes watching him as he entered. When he shut the door behind him, the entire room was enveloped in darkness.

He quietly climbed the wooden steps, hand idly tracing up the ornate, carved railing. At the top of the staircase was a long corridor.

Sheer curtains blew gently in the hall, hanging from open windows. From the carpet, a few doors down, a dog raised its head. Spotting Dick.

The dog growled lowly. Dick stepped forward and pulled off his mask. The animal went silent in response, eyes glowing in the darkness, and Dick heard him sniff once. The dog got up and moved toward him, sniffing his hand. He seemed to remember him. Dick noticed the silver tag hanging off his collar, and while Dick thought he had heard his real name mentioned before, he still felt compelled to kneel down and turn the tag over and read it himself.

 _Titus_.

Somehow, Dick thought he liked ‘Toto’ better. But ‘Titus’ was suiting. He ignored the way Titus poked at his face with his wet nose, and rubbed the canine’s head once in an awkward pat, before straightening back up and moving toward the door that Titus had been sitting in front of.

Dick opened the door, peeking inside, before venturing further. He gently closed the door behind him, making sure that he was silent. He slowly padded along the carpet toward the bed.

He tucked the mask into his belt, next to where his dagger sat.

He looked at the pup who was asleep. There were hints of his face in the darkness, and Dick thought he looked strangely peaceful. The curtains swayed in front of the window, casts of light flickering onto the bed.

Dick leaned in a little closer, hand reaching, eyes focused on Damian’s exposed neck.

Sudden movement. A glint of polished steel and the sound of covers being thrown. Damian was on his feet in an instant, pushing Dick back against the wall with a dull thud. Dick didn’t flinch—he completely stilled, allowing the knife to press against his throat. Damian stopped when their eyes met—but his dark brows furrowed, an emotion flaring in his gaze as he recognized Dick through the darkness. His eyes widened slightly in surprise at first—likely noting the lively color to Dick’s face, but less than a moment later the rage was back.

“ _You—_ ”he started, the anger resonant in his voice, but Dick cut him off.

“I’m not here to fight.”

“You should have thought that before you went _crawling back_ to _them_ —”

Dick leaned in toward the knife, the blade now pressing into the material wrapped around his throat, threatening to cut him. Damian blinked, astounded. Making a frustrated sound between his teeth, he finally withdrew the blade.

“What do you want then?” Damian said, in a voice that was rueful but quiet.

“I finished my last trial—”

“I _know_. I— _Father_ , heard about the body. It’s too late. It doesn’t matter if you’re still alive—he won’t help you now and neither will I. You made your choice clear.”

“I know,” Dick said quietly. The uncertainty in Damian’s expression seemed to grow, and Dick could sense the stillness in his breath. “Tomorrow, if all goes as planned, I’ll surpass my mentor and then I’ll become a Talon.”

“ _Tt_.” The defensive look in Damian’s eyes returned. “You came all the way here just to tell me that?”

After saying it out loud, it felt as foolish as Damian made it seem. Then again, everything Damian seemed to bark at Dick made him feel foolish, and it still didn’t keep Dick away. He admitted, “Yes.”

“Why?”

Dick wasn’t sure what to say. He stepped away from the wall he had been forcefully pressed against and Damian simply backed away, giving him space. He took a moment to glance around Damian’s room. It felt strangely generic, as if Damian didn’t live there at all. As if he had been just visiting and staying in a guest room. He could feel Damian’s eyes on him, watching him closely, but Dick made no move to do anything incriminating. He simply wanted to see what Damian’s room looked like. It was all cast in dark shadows with seemingly no personal belongings, but Dick knew the room belonged to Damian. This was the place that Damian presumably spent every night in. A room that he maybe escaped to when he needed a place to think, a place to vent. A room, inside a place he could call _home_ instead of spending every night in a stranger’s house.

Damian must have been getting impatient but he didn’t say anything. Dick answered, “Because after I become Talon, the next time I see you, it won’t be the same. The next time I see you, it might be for the last time.”

“It won’t be a last time,” Damian said, his voice sounding assured, but he didn't speak in his characteristic tone. His voice seemed void of its usual roughness, speaking evenly. “I’m not going to kill you—or anyone, ever again. And you’ll _try_ , but you'll never kill me either, because I'm stronger. Better. You’ll have to try, over and over again, but it’ll never happen. It won’t be the same next time we meet—but there will never be a _last_ time.”

Maybe Damian’s words were meant to be bragging or perhaps insulting to Dick’s ability as an assassin, but even so, Dick felt the corner of his mouth lift. Damian just looked at him in return, seeming uneasy at Dick’s smile.

Dick accomplished what he had sought to do. He turned to leave.

“I lied,” Damian said, and Dick glanced over his shoulder at him. “It’s not too late. What I said about my father not helping you—those were my words, not his.”

“I’m not joining you.”

“You don’t have to,” Damian said. “You don’t have to do anything. You can leave and become a performer or a bartender or a cop or whatever you want.”

“This is my path. I understand that now.”

“Don’t be _stupid_ —”Damian said with a sudden snarl, teeth bared.

“I can’t have the life you have—I can’t sit around in a manor with a butler. I can’t ever go back to the moment where my parents were alive, much less pretend to have a family—the Owls are my family—”

“If you become immortal, I’ll _never_ forgive you.”

At that, Dick stopped. Damian silently drew back a step, perhaps realizing that he had said too much. Shown too much. And Dick was surprised by how difficult it was to leave. He had never seen Damian’s room until now, he had barely stepped into the family’s manor at all, but to leave and close that door seemed like a very difficult task.

Damian’s downcast gaze suddenly flickered up, watching Dick intensely as he drew closer. Dick reached for him—to which Damian immediately slapped his hand away, but just as quickly Dick grabbed him by the collar with his other hand. He pulled Damian in, smothering his mouth with a kiss.

It was heated. Quick. Hard.

Just as quickly, Dick felt something sharp against his bottom lip, and he flinched at the sudden pain that caught him off guard. He pulled back, a hint of copper on his tastebuds. He reached to wipe the cut, the pad of his thumb touching his lip. It was difficult to see in the darkness, but he saw the red on his glove. He glanced back up, saw a matching spot of red on Damian’s lip as well.

He let out a single breath, almost like laughter, at the strange—and almost sad—thought inside his head.

A string of red.

He watched Damian who had a dark grimace on his expression, and was now wiping his mouth with the back of his sleeve. His gaze was averted.

Damian looked up, startled, as Dick closed in again—Dick pushing him up against the wall, hands on his wrists. And Damian struggled once but then Dick pushed him further, wrists pinned to the wall beside him, and Damian gave up almost too quickly.

“Idiot,” he suddenly cursed, but the word seemed rushed. “Whatever game you're trying to play—”

“It’s not a game,” Dick said, voice low. Damian wasn’t looking back at him but Dick can catch it—the growing flush on his face. “You've given me more second chances than you had any good reason to. You _want_ me here.” Damian wasn’t fighting him, but Dick tightened his grip on his wrists anyways. “Maybe it's to impress your father. Maybe you think that if I turn to the light, there’s no reason why _you_ can’t do the same. Or maybe it’s something else.”

“Or maybe _you’re_ the one trying to find an excuse to stay,” Damian said. Then he shrank back, scowling to himself. “ _Tt_. You don't know anything about me.”

“What’s there to know?” Dick said, and their faces were so close that their noses almost touched. “You learned how to read people, how to find their weak points. You were trained under impossible conditions. You’ve learned how to strategize, to escape from every situation. You learned how to silence yourself and how to win. You pay your loyalty and prove your worth in blood. I already know this.”

There was a subtle hitch in Damian’s breath when Dick’s knee forced a space in between Damian's legs. Damian went on anyways, tone sharp as always: “You can’t stay here for long. My father is right down the hall.”

“Is that it? You’re worried about what he’ll think—”

“I don’t care what anyone thinks,” he shot back immediately.

“You care what _he_ thinks,” Dick corrected.

Damian lifted himself off the wall but Dick pinned him back into place, back slamming against the surface with a little more force than intended. Dick expected Damian to push him off—but he stilled instead, eyeing up at him. There was a sense of caution in his eyes—yet, it still had that fearless nature that was characteristic of him.

“Well?” he said, voice low. “If you’re going to do it, then do it.”

Dick crushed his lips against Damian’s, hard, and Damian didn’t bite him. Didn’t even lift his hands off the wall. He pressed back, chasing after Dick’s kiss, wanting more. When they parted, they were both breathless, and Dick didn’t waste a second. With both hands he grabbed the shirt collar sitting around Damian’s throat, yanking it away to make room for his mouth. He sucked on Damian’s neck, hard enough to bruise, and Damian’s freed hands moved to tangle in Dick’s hair.

He could feel the blunt fingernails against his scalp, drawing him in closer. Heat was already pulsing through Dick’s body, as if it was just waiting for the moment to come back to life. Blood rushing through him, breath already shortened. And he could feel the heat on Damian’s skin, could hear every staggered breath. It drove Dick crazy, desire spiking. Damian had to have felt it too—Dick knew that he had to.

He sunk into Damian’s body, trapping the younger between the wall and his knee. They were almost equal in height and maybe in a year, he’d be taller than him.

He stopped that thought, shutting it out. He couldn’t think about the future.

He could feel the shape of Damian pressed against his leg and Dick knew they were going too far but he felt no need to stop. He felt he needed to go _faster_ , because when the night was over and the next day arrived, he was going to be at his last trial and he may not make it out alive. And even if he did, things would never be the same.

His skin will never feel this warm again. Damian’s hands pulling on his hair won’t hurt. His lips won’t taste or feel as soft—

Not as if this opportunity would ever present itself again.

He moved faster. Lips dragging against Damian’s skin, hands fumbling to get underneath his clothes. He heard a light gasp near his ear, just as he pressed his palm against Damian’s hot flesh. He grabbed ahold of him, felt him swell in his hand in response.

Damian’s hands travelled to the fastenings on the back of Dick’s suit, yanking on them, the clumsy movements barely pulling them undone but making the demand clear enough. Dick couldn’t refuse him—he wanted to undo the suit. He wanted to be free from the confines of his uniform. Wanted to feel Damian’s skin with bare hands, and feel Damian on him as well. He backed away, long enough to yank on the laces of his bracers and reach for the clasp on his harness. The leather, decorated in throwing knives, fell to the carpet with a heavy thud. Piece by piece, layer by layer, every inch of steel, leather, and cloth followed.

There were still some reservations—Damian, pulling Dick’s hands away as he tried to grab at his clothing. Taking the lead himself as he unbuttoned and removed every inch of fabric. Shadows were playing on his skin and Dick felt impatient, wanting to rip the clothing off himself, but Dick still found himself growing harder with every removed garment. And even though Damian made him wait, it was also Damian who was the one yanking him toward his bed. Hands and lips still attached. More heatedly now, teeth catching, breath short, as they fall into the mattress.

Dick knelt between Damian’s legs, forcefully yanking on his hips. He saw the subtle glint in Damian’s eyes, face illuminated in the dim light, as their hips met. Dick ground down, their breaths catching in the otherwise silent room, their erections pressed against each other. The friction and heat felt real, more real than anything Dick had felt in a long time. There was an unwillingness to let go completely, an inhibition that halted their sounds and erased their words, and yet it felt more honest than any other occasion that Dick spent in bed with someone else.

He felt this pulling, something that tethered him to Damian. Something that made him want to fall into Damian completely and he did, the heat trapped between their bodies as Damian wrapped his arms around his back. His breath hot against his ear every time Dick rolled his hips, increasing the friction between their cocks. Dick’s mouth latched onto Damian’s throat, teeth pressing.

And it is like they’re connected. Like they share a single body, Damian an extension of himself, responding to every one of Dick’s movements. He bit down on skin, enough to draw blood. Enough to taste him in return. And Damian arched his back, their lower halves pressing harder now. Low, guttural groans exchanged between them. Damian’s nails dug into Dick’s back and Dick shuddered in response. He could feel the heat, stronger now, and moved his hips faster to chase after the pleasure between their legs. Felt Damian’s nails rake along his back, hands travelling downwards to grab onto his ass, bringing their hips closer.

Dick propped himself up, spat into his hand. Reached down to grab their erections. Looked into Damian’s face as he squeezed his hand around them, half-lidded eyes meeting Damian's. The pup’s pupils are dilated and his eyelashes thick but eyes glowing. The shape of Dick’s teeth are still punctured on Damian’s skin, and idly Dick wondered how long it’ll stay there. If it’ll be there after he’s gone.

They both have scars riddled on their bodies. Scratches and bruises, old and new. Dick ran a hand over Damian’s body, felt the raised scars. Some too old and too many for someone his age. Some that felt familiar to his own. Damian’s skin was gorgeous, his body sculpted—stomach hardened and arms lean but strong. Dick’s hand moved to his chest, hands tweaking at his nipple. Damian inhaled slowly, eyes growing hazy, gaze still locked with Dick’s. Dick pushed harder into his hand, rubbing his cock against Damian’s. The head of Damian’s cock is leaking with precum. Dick’s heart is racing faster now, hammering against his chest, the lust inside him growing as heat ran down his body. He teased Damian’s chest, hand pumping them all the while. He watched as Damian’s head fell back into the pillow, the hand resting on Dick’s hipbone tightening painfully. Hips slowing, both of them rocking into Dick’s hand.

The pleasure was growing, heat pooling in Dick’s groin. The sensual rise and fall of Damian’s hips, the way his muscles flexed and relaxed with every movement, lips softly parted and eyes closed tight—the sight alone has Dick thrusting harder, wrist beginning to ache as he pumped them together.

Their sounds are louder than they should be, though they’re hardly loud at all. Voices still tuned down to sharp gasps and soft sighs mixing together. They should be careful, they could be caught—any moment could be the end.

Damian suddenly grabbed onto him, pushing Dick into the bed, his back sinking into the mattress. Dick didn’t know what Damian was planning on doing next, and the strong arms pinning him down shouldn’t have felt as exciting as it was. Their cocks ground against one another again and Dick relaxed into the bed, letting Damian control the pace. Damian is rutting against him, faster than Dick’s pacing. Damian wrapped his hand around them this time, fisting their cocks, and Dick could feel tremors of pleasure running down his spine. They aren't doing anything different, but Dick’s pleasure was rising. His heart racing as his eyes drank in the sight of Damian on top of him.

He almost wanted to hold back. Just a little longer. But he was pushing back into Damian instinctively, hips stuttering as his body clenched up, heat rushing through him until he can’t hold back anymore. He came, hot seed unloading. Dirtying Damian's cock and hand. And Damian jerked him through it, letting out a low groan as he came too. Dick watched his face as the pleasure washed over, watching as Damian’s face nearly _softened_ as he reached climax.

Dick felt the hot seed dripping onto his lower stomach. Damian’s hand was in the sheets, wiping it clean—and Dick grabbed him, pulling him into his body. Tasting his lips again. He felt the slow drag of Damian sucking on his lower lip and groaned softly. He followed after Damian’s lips, even as the boy collapsed onto the bed next to him. Not wanting to let go. Still wanting to taste him on his lips, cheek, neck, collarbone.

Moments passed in silence as both caught their breaths, bodies relaxing. And as they came down from their orgasms, their senses slowly began to return. Damian was silent but Dick could sense his thoughts. They shouldn’t have done that.

“I don’t think the Court wants me back,” Dick suddenly confessed, to which Damian finally looked at him. Damian’s eyes travelled over him, as if trying to scrutinize whether Dick was being honest. Dick went on, the words tumbling out of him, all of his doubts coming out at once, “It doesn’t feel the same as it did before.”

Damian’s brow furrowed slightly. He seemed almost worried by Dick’s words. “What are you going to do?”

“I don’t think there’s anything I can do,” Dick said.

“Don’t go back.”

“I have to.”

“Stay here.”

“Do you want me to?” Dick said, locking eyes with him, and there’s a brief moment of hesitation. Dick thought the answer might be yes, but if it was, Damian couldn’t bring himself to say it. Dick averted his gaze, sparing Damian from having to answer. He went on, his voice almost a whisper, “It’d be easier if I could just go back to the way things were before. But I don’t regret any of it.”

His voice, almost light. “Even though I almost killed you?”

“Even though you almost killed me.”

A pause. “If you’re going to go, you should do it now.”

Dick turned in the bed, placing his elbow on the mattress on the other side of Damian, hovering over him. Damian simply looked up at him. “They asked me what I knew about the labyrinth. I told them what you told me, about the red thread.”

Damian just stared up at him. “And?”

Dick didn’t want to think about the Court. He said instead, “I think I liked that other story you told me better. The one with the unbreakable thread.”

The words were meant to fluster or irritate Damian, like they did anytime Dick teased him. Instead, the boy looked at him for a moment and kissed him.

Dick tasted his mouth, felt his tongue press against his. Warm and wet. He felt himself sinking into Damian’s body, resting on top of him. Their lips separated long enough to catch their breaths. Dick could feel Damian, his cock semihard again, pressed hot against his body.

Dick has one night left, and the night wasn’t quite over yet.

Dick reached down between his legs, stroking his own cock. Lips meeting Damian’s again—but not rushed this time. Slower. Wanting to taste him fully. Feel his kiss completely.

It’d never feel the same again. It’d never _be_ the same again. He knew that.

His hand traced down Damian’s body. He pushed himself between his thighs, feeling the underside of Damian’s cock pressed against his erection. A gasp was pulled out of him, the breath reminding him that he was still alive.

Dick shouldn’t be there—but that didn’t send him away. It just made him want to hold on longer, for as long as he could. For as long as he’d still feel alive and enjoy this piece of freedom.

 

Dick walked the dark passageways, led by the Court. His mind drifted to the time before the labyrinth, when Talon had accompanied him in the very same corridors. He came to the realization that that was the last conversation they had, before Dick was dragged out of the labyrinth, lucid, with Talon attempting to chase after him.

Dick wondered if Talon was going to wish him luck before this trial.

The Owls led him to the same room of his first trial, when he faced the fire dancer and strangled him with his own whip. Dick took in a deep breath before entering the white room.

This was only the second time Dick had entered this room—and yet, Dick felt like he had known it all his life. There wasn't a day that passed by where he didn't think about the room of his first trial. It wasn’t so long ago—and yet it seemed like a strange period of time in his life. A time where he sensed that things weren't what he believed they were.

A time where he began to have doubt.

He stopped in his tracks, looking up at his opponent. And for a moment, there was shock—his stomach dropping in response. Because this wasn’t his mentor.

At least, he couldn’t have been.

The mask was familiar, sure, but there was something off about him. He looked… _bigger_ , somehow. Stronger. It had only been a few weeks since they had last seen each other, and yet, he looked like he had undergone a complete transformation.

At first, Dick thought he might have been imagining it, but Talon even seemed taller.

With a sense of finality, the door closed with a sound. Dick’s gaze travelled upwards, where the Parliament had gathered once again. The seats above him seemed even more crowded than before.

Dick knew the rules. He just had to disable the Talon and he would win. Take away his weapons, his limbs, bind him, whatever it took—and it’d be done. But if he failed, it meant his life, and he could not accept that. He remembered all of his spars with Talon—he never won, but he had come close a number of times. Talon might have gotten stronger but his life wasn’t the one that was hanging on the line.

Dick had to hope that the will to survive would help him win.

The Owls hushed as the final trial began, all eyes on them. Talon moved in first but Dick was ready.

Dick pulled out both daggers from his belt, countering Talons’ blow. He wasn’t expecting the force behind the first blow—trying to recall memories of sparring and trying to decide if it had ever felt like this. He supposed it didn’t matter—he’d have to go with it.

Each time their daggers met, Talon’s strength sent a tremor through Dick’s forearms. Dick gritted his teeth, trying to concentrate and shut out the pain. As he was taught.

He found an opening. He took it, heard a distant gasp in the level above him as he made the first hit. The dagger knocking Talon’s own out of his hand. Dick’s heart raced faster, the adrenaline building up—but he didn’t dare to get excited. This was far from over.

He quickly was reminded that when Talons’ fist grazed against his cheek. The hit didn’t land properly but it was enough to make Dick flinch.

Dick barely saw the kick in time. It landed in his gut, forcing him off balance, breath knocked out of him.

Talon grabbed him by the collar and slammed him back into the floors, with such force that he heard the tiles crack beneath him and the daggers fell from his hands. A strength that felt unlike anything Dick had faced before. Pain shot up his spine, all at once, his vision flashing red for a split second. Still, Dick couldn’t afford the split second to regain himself, like he did anytime that he and Talon sparred and Dick needed a break. He was still in the midst of battle and Talon’s dagger was coming down, aimed at Dick.

Dick stopped Talon’s strike in time, grabbing him by the arm. He pushed back against Talon, stopping the dagger from lowering any further. Talon’s strength was unlike anything Dick had faced—his arms were trembling just to keep him at bay.

“What did they do to you?” he managed to gasp between strained breaths.

“Enough talking,” Talon responded harshly, voice muffled by the mask. Dick groaned as Talon pushed harder, the tip of the dagger coming dangerously close. “And stop holding back. This _isn’t_ how I trained you.”

Back pinned against the ground with Talon looming over him, Dick managed to pull up his legs enough to kick Talon off of him. His former mentor had some weight to him, and Dick found himself already out of breath.

Even so, he found himself saying, “You can’t tell me to be quiet.”

Talon swiped but Dick rolled out of the way, picking up on of his fallen daggers on the way. Talon came towards him but Dick’s dagger was in his hand, prepared. He drove the blade into Talon’s flesh, cutting through the uniform, dark blood spilling forth. He pulled back the knife quickly, but Talon’s hand grabbed him by the wrist.

Dick wrenched his hand out of the grasp, feeling a dull pain in his wrist—even under the protection of the bracer, it felt bruised—and he swung an arm.

The force of the blow actually staggered Talon. Dick grabbed at whatever he could, hand grasping onto the mask—but Talon recovered quickly, striking Dick across the face hard. Dick stumbled back, the mask coming with him.

Dick was stunned in place, staring.

Dick’s gaze first landed on Talon’s face. The same man he had seen before. The same one who trained him. But then his eyes travelled down to the Talon’s neck, taking in the stitches on his throat. Threaded through the skin, wrapped all the way around.

A sudden revulsion twisted through Dick’s gut as his suspicions were confirmed. The same suspicions he had since the day on the rooftop with the clocktower. The Court had done something to their Talons. Some type of experiment that Dick had never seen before. They had attached parts to him.

And in the case of his mentor, they had attached his head to this—this _body_.

Dick couldn’t decide if this was Talon’s punishment for disobeying, Dick’s for leaving, or another of the Court’s strategies—but it filled him with fear, disgust, and even a bit of anger. All were responses to this monster that the Court had created, like the minotaurs and chimeras that they adored. Fashioning themselves as Daedalus with their weapons and labyrinths and all of the other _stupid bullshit_ —

He chose this path.

He did.

But he wasn’t going to view the Court as his father, if that's what they were trying to do.

Talon rushed back towards him. A swipe of a dagger cut through the front of his uniform, drawing blood. Dick took the blow, staying focused even as the pain travelled through him. He grabbed ahold of Talon’s arm, twisting him into a hold. It worked—his heart started to race, realizing this was his opening. He pulled with all his strength, until he finally heard the bone _snap_.

The victory was short lived. The effort had zapped Dick’s strength and he sensed Talon’s arm too late. The other hand had pulled out a throwing knife—shorter, lighter, but sharp nonetheless—and swung around, stabbing it into Dick’s back.

Dick released him, hissing between his teeth as the pain shot through his body, his breath lost as the knife was left there, digging into his back, in a spot he couldn’t quite reach to yank it back out.

He moved himself away, nearly tripping on his feet as he ducked underneath a thrown knife. His body felt heavy now, exhaustion gripping him. The cut on his chest was spilling drops of blood onto the ground. He could feel the hot blood saturating the back of his uniform, the knife digging into his body with every movement. He was sweaty, out of breath, exhausted—and Talon might have been one arm down but he was far from _finished_.

Unforgiving, Talon chased after him. He had transferred the dagger into his good hand, catching up to Dick in no time. Dick raised his bracer in time to block the stab. The metal clanged, the strike reverberating through Dick’s forearm, and Dick struggled to keep up with every consecutive strike. Talon was hitting hard, fast, even with one arm—and finally, Talon had an opening, the tip of his dagger nicking Dick above the brow. Blood trickled down Dick’s face, falling into his eye. Obscuring his vision. One eye closed, Dick tried to keep up with Talon’s strikes—but tripped as he tried to lean away from a dagger strike and misjudged the distance.

He landed on the hard ground. The white floors were painted and smeared with different shades of red. Blood was streaming into his eyes and face. He could smell it, taste it, it was all he could see and feel. Just blood, everywhere.

The pain was so great, his senses so overwhelmed, that Dick almost forgot why he was fighting.

As he got on his knees, he heard Talon’s footsteps. Dick could taste the blood on his lips, copious now. He spit, watching with one eye as red sprayed across the perfect white floors. A shadow loomed over him—Talon was ready to deliver the final blow.

Dick stared for a moment, transfixed by his blood stained on the floor. His head was pounding something fierce, and despite it all, a memory came back to him.

“Remember when I broke my leg,” Dick said out loud, and he couldn't even find the strength to turn his head and see if Talon was listening. Not that it mattered—his energy was drained and he knew that the end was coming. He struggled to keep his eyes open, fading as his mind travelled elsewhere. To a different time. “And you had to carry me in the passageways?”

A shift in sound. A hesitation.

Against his will, Dick’s body reacted.

With what felt like the last of his strength, he stood and turned. He grabbed onto the Talon’s good leg, tripping him, and in an instant he twisted it. As he was taught and trained. The heavy bone snapped, breaking his leg. Talon reached out to react but Dick narrowly dodged the swipe of the dagger, stepping out of the way in time.

Dick rolled off of Talon, crawling backwards on his hand a few paces away. Examining his work. His mentor propped himself up on his good arm, but when he tried to stand, his body could not balance itself. He collapsed. From the ground, Talon took one last glance at the remaining blade on his harness. The rest of his uniform was stripped bare of all of its throwing knives and daggers.

In one last effort, he threw his final knife. Dick dodged in time, moreso stumbling aside, as the blade cut through the air, the sound whistling in his ear as it flew passed him. It landed behind Dick with a clatter.

And that was that.

Dick could feel his heart racing, but not in excitement or thrill. He was struggling to stand. His entire body felt hot, his vision blurry. He felt like he was going to blackout.

But then, through it all, he heard something. One sound amidst the fog, followed by another, and another and another.

And for a moment, Dick was convinced it was the song of angels, ready to take what was left of his sorry excuse of a spirit into the afterlife. But he was undeserving and skeptical, and so Dick forced himself to face what he was hearing, knowing that he must be hallucinating. When he turned, eyes towards the ceiling, he found himself in front of an entire audience of Owls standing tall. Cheering. Clapping.

His trials were complete. He surpassed his mentor.

He had finished the big finale.

Dick stared, his head turning, finally realizing that what he was hearing was applause.

He hadn't heard it in so long.

A group of Owls suddenly emerged from behind the doors, clapping still. They headed towards them. The grandmaster hurried toward Talon.

“Well done, William. We had our doubts but you proved yourself. He's perfect.” She quickly gestured for the rest of the Owls, pointing them in Dick’s direction. “Hurry up. He’s on the brink of death. We need to get the electrum in him activated as soon as possible.”

As if on cue, Dick was suddenly aware of his drained strength. He collapsed to his knees, drawing the attention of all the Owls. They all came to him but Dick shrugged them off, determined to stand on his own.

He glanced over at his former mentor, scattered across from him a few feet away. The former Talon, abandoned by the Owls who were too busy turning their sights onto Dick. William, whose name Dick had never known until now.

William caught him looking. He nodded once.

“Well done, John.”

Dick stared as the Owls forced him to his feet, pulling him away. In the background, he could hear owls.

 _Who_?

 _Who_?

 _Who_?

 

They had him in the chair. The grandmaster was screeching orders at everyone, trying to begin the process of turning Dick into a Talon as quickly as possible, who was on the verge of fading away. Fading into unconsciousness, or deeper than that, Dick wasn't sure. When Talon had thrown him into the ground, he must have damaged him internally. He had been coughing and spitting up blood. He could barely concentrate but the Owls told him to keep his eyes open and so he did.

Next to him, per Dick’s insistence, was the sarcophagus where William was placed in stasis. He was frozen, eyes shut and unmoving underneath the window of glass.

When the grandmaster approached him, Dick forced himself to finally speak.

“He called me John.”

It wasn't a mistake that Talon had ever made before. It was always Gray Son or Richard, never anything else, not even his childhood nickname. But there was something deeper to that name that unnerved Dick.

The Talon had hesitated in killing him. And now Dick couldn't help but think back on moments in his life. Couldn't help but think of William, as he was unmasked before placed in the sarcophagus, and how Dick found something familiar under the fog of electrum in his predecessor’s eyes.

How William had told him that Gray Son was the name that was given to Dick’s grandfather, when he was given away to the circus. How it was not his true family name.

John was Dick’s middle name.

But John was also the name of Dick’s father.

It was also the name of his father's father.

The Owl in the black mask simply stared at Dick. “It was a mistake. Your name _is_ Richard.”

“And what else is the truth?” Dick asked. “Why would he call me that?”

The Owl stood tall and rigid, hovering over him in his place in the chair. And still, Dick could sense her unease.

“It was the name he gave his son, before he handed him to Haly’s Circus nearly a hundred years ago,” she confessed. Dick processed this information, found himself touching the glass.

“You told me my family was dead.”

The Owl looked at him. “They are.”

The sarcophagus felt cold against his hands.

Another Owl came by and pried open Dick’s mouth, double-checking for the tooth. “The tooth has been supplying electrum to your bloodline for years. Now you just need a spark to get the concoction to start working. I’m going to give you a shot. It’ll kill you—but the electrum will bring you back.”

Dick didn’t need the explanation. “I’m ready.”

“You’ve been ready for a long time, Gray Son,” the Owl replied. He left and came back with the shot.

He didn't wince as the needle pierced his skin. He allowed himself to feel the pain. He saw the concoction inside, mixed with electrum, gleaming like gold—and he reminded himself that it would all be over soon. That he would never feel pain or hurt again.

But then a spark ran through his body, all of his blood turning to fire at once. Dick closed his eyes, and faintly, he was aware of the blood welling in the back of his mouth. He had bit his cheek in reaction to the shot.

“It's not over, Gray Son,” the grandmaster said, hushed. Trying to comfort him as sparks ran through his body, his vision flashing black and red. The white room and Owl masks blurring together.

He remembered thinking, again and again, that it wasn't over.

But in a way, it was.

Blood touched his tongue.

He tasted it.

 


	5. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After completing his trials and surpassing his mentor, Dick starts on a new path.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here it is, the epilogue!
> 
> I'm not sure how people will like it, but hopefully it will give more resolution than the end of the last chapter.
> 
> A big thank you to everyone that read this story, especially those who commented and shared their thoughts. You're all the best.
> 
> With this now done, this is yet another DickDami story that I have completed. With the exception of my Valentine's fic, I've been writing DickDami nonstop since... about July or so? With that being said... as a message for my regular readers, I feel like it's important to mention that I've decided to take a break from writing DickDami for awhile! I still have a gift and an exchange piece that is on the way and I hope to have those released soon.
> 
> No, this does not mean that I'm finished writing DickDami forever! They are still my OTP, and it seems like DickDami Week plans are underway and I would love to participate in that again. I'm just going to take a little bit of a break from these guys for awhile. There's a lot of stories that I started and never got around to finishing because I've been so focused on my DickDami projects. I want to focus on finishing those stories and have some time to explore other characters/pairings. Some of these pairings I've been wanting to write for months but they keep getting buried underneath DickDami! So I feel like a break is necessary, haha.
> 
> So if you're interested in my DickDami projects, keep an eye out for my giftfic and exchange fic. But after that, don't expect to see another update for a few months! However, I do have a big DickDami project planned for the summer (a multi-chap fic), so at the very least, expect something around summertime and hopefully during DickDami week!
> 
> Again, thank you all! I hope you enjoyed this story.

Dick gazed at the waxing moon.

He was standing near the window of a large loft in one of the tallest residential buildings of Old Gotham. It was a quiet night. Cars were parked in front of their houses, the streetlights were dim, and the sounds of downtown were hushed. Even the winds seemed still.

Dick glanced down at his hands. The blood had seeped through his gloves. He could feel it, barely. It had been a long night. He’d have to wash his uniform when he returned to his safehouse but the night wasn’t over yet. There were still tasks that had to be done. Another house he had to cross off from his list of addresses.

There was a quiet, creaking sound behind him. The floorboards. Dick turned away from the window, his eyes travelling along the carpet. He walked a path through the living room, alongside the trail of dried blood. He passed broken glass, a busted table, and several bodies. As he moved, his foot landed on something. He looked down, turning over the object with his boot.

An Owl mask, smeared in blood, looked up at him.

“You don’t have to do this on your own.”

Dick turned his head toward the source of the sound. There was someone standing in the doorway to the other room, as Dick expected. Two yellow eyes looked back at him.

“Our goals aren’t too different. You like to kill Owls. I like to kill Owls. We’d make a pretty good team.” A small smirk. Dick just stared back coldly. He wasn’t in the mood for this. “I’m just saying.”

A sudden anger rose inside of Dick. He rushed forward, dagger drawn, but a heavy bracer blocked the blow. Calvin grabbed onto him.

“Come on, Grayson,” Calvin said with a heavy sigh. Dick pulled back his arm and took a step back. His glare did not let down. “Just give them up. We don’t have to keep doing this.”

“I’m not joining your fucking organization,” Dick spat back. Calvin raised both of his hands in the air.

“Whoa, whoa. Language.” Calvin clicked his tongue. “You’re a little testy today. This isn’t like you. Hey, if this is about the dagger in the back from last time, I’m sorry—but I mean, it’s not like it _hurt_ —”

“Our goals are _nothing_ alike,” Dick said, rage unquelled. “I’m not joining you and I’m not telling you where they are—so give it up. I spared you last time—but if you try to interfere again, I’ll kill you.”

“Giving up isn’t really my thing,” Calvin said, shrugging a shoulder. But his gaze was still carefully set on Dick, waiting for him to swing his dagger again. Dick’s hand was clenched tightly around the hilt. There was a shift in Calvin’s expression, seeming to grow more serious. In a lower voice, he said, “What are you hoping to do, Dick? Kill all of the Owls and then find an island somewhere? Live the rest of your days in peace with your own little parliament? Those monsters don’t want a family—they _gave up_ their families. We’re not _human_ , Dick. We’re _weapons_ , and so are they. That’s all Talons ever were.”

“ _You_ chose a different path,” Dick said, insistent. “So did I. What makes it any different for them?”

“They’re _brainwashed_ , Grayson,” Calvin said, and there’s an insistence to his voice. His volume steadily rising. He’s trying to remain calm to negotiate, but his anger for the Court and everything they’ve created was getting to him. “You think they’re going to change their minds? After all that they’ve sacrificed? After they _find out_ what you did? They’ll _carve you alive_ when they find out you’ve been killing the Court—”

Dick was tired of this. It was the same conversation from the last time. Again and again and again. He was done with people telling him what to do. “I’ll find a way to make them understand.”

“Killing is all they know,” Calvin said. He growled, adding, “If you release them, they’ll tear everything in Gotham apart. They’ll chop you into pieces and when they’re done, they’ll go after everyone else! They’ll burn this whole godforsaken city to the _fucking ground_ and it’ll have been _your_ fault for not getting rid of them when you had the chance!”

“I’m not going to let you _kill_ them,” Dick said, slipping into a defensive stance when Calvin moved towards him. Calvin’s brow was deeply furrowed, the rage deep in his face.

“Don’t you get it? They’re _already dead_!”

Calvin moved in swiftly. Dick countered the strike that swung at him, the daggers sparking as they struck one another. Dick slowly backed up, careful to not trip over any of the furnishings in the house as Calvin came after him. They stepped over bodies and broken table legs alike, exchanging blows. Dick swung his dagger and missed—Calvin slammed him up against the wall, his teeth bared. Dick struggled against his hold.

Calvin looked into his eyes. Behind the yellowed lenses, Dick could see the man’s eyes begin to mellow. More composed, he whispered, “You wouldn’t have to do anything. All you need to do is tell me where they are. I’ll take care of it—and you can go back to your life. Killing Owls, picking up a new hobby, I don’t care. But you can’t let these bastards go unpunished—you can’t _protect_ them—”

Dick ignored him. He swapped their positions, forcing Calvin into the wall. He stabbed his dagger into Calvin’s hand, forcing his weapon out of his hand. Dick pushed up against him, keeping him pressed up against the wall. As they stared each other down, Dick realized he couldn’t keep doing this. He couldn’t keep Calvin from interfering or chasing him down. He was an obstacle—and he needed to be eliminated.

“I already warned you before,” Dick murmured, shaking his head to himself. “I can’t let you keep getting in my way. I can’t risk you killing them. I have to get rid of you.”

“You can try—”

“I figured out how to use it. The switch,” Dick said. Calvin stopped struggling, listening. “If you want to know where they are—I’ll take you to them. When you’re _in stasis_.” Dick’s brow furrowed, knowing perfectly well how fucked up he sounded. Using the Owls’ weapon—it wasn’t the way Dick wanted to operate. He didn’t want to be anything like them. But with Calvin’s interference, he was running out of options. He quickly added, voice lower, “I won’t keep you in stasis forever. I’ll wake you up last, after I’ve proven that you’re wrong. And by then, you’ll understand. We both got our second chances, Calvin. There’s no reason why they don’t deserve the same.”

“You’re not _shutting me off_.”

“Maybe. But one thing is certain: I’m definitely not letting you out of here,” Dick said. He grabbed another dagger from his belt, pushed harder on Calvin who began to struggled against his grip. He raised the dagger to strike again but suddenly, there was a loud crash.

Dick turned away from Calvin, just in time to see a dark shape standing near the front door that had been kicked down.

“Then again, maybe you are,” Calvin said and lightning quick, he kneed Dick in the gut while he was distracted, strong enough to send Dick stumbling back a step. Calvin yanked out the dagger that kept his hand pinned—and Dick dodged it when it went flying in his direction.

He should be anxious—but it was hard to tell what he felt with a dead heartbeat. His mind was urging him to chase after Calvin but he knew it was unwise. The man was already in the side room, perched on the ledge of the open window he had crawled in through. “Say hello to them for me!”

Dick heard a subtle sound—the sweeping of fabric. He spun away from a punch that was aimed at him. He faced his enemy, catching the tips of the cowl raised high. He already knew it was Batman. Another strike came his way—he backed away from it. Slowly walking backwards into the side room, eyes on Bruce. Waiting for the next strike. But while Batman was inching towards him, he wasn’t attacking. Dick caught a glimpse of his face in the moonlight, sensing his deep frown.

“Dick,” he said, and though Batman’s voice was so stern, there was a hint of something almost forlorn in his words. “All these people—you need to stop. You can’t keep chasing revenge.”

At that, Dick felt almost indignant. “It’s not about revenge. They’re not _safe_. If you knew even half of their plans, you’d do the same—”

“Killing them is not the answer,” Bruce said. His voice is cautious now. Dick already knows his strategy—Bruce was trying to talk to him. Get inside his head.

It was another conversation that Dick was sick of.

Dick quickly grabbed onto the long table, stacked with decorative vases and picture frames, that was next to him. He easily turned it over with his added strength, the table crashing into Batman. But while Bruce was staggered, he wasn’t completely overtaken. He was reaching into his belt.

Dick spotted something familiar in his hands.

He rolled out of the way in time when the freezegun went off. He didn’t stop moving—he ran and ran, frost chasing after him. The gusts of cold biting at him, his entire body feeling chilled just by being in proximity.

It was the closest thing to pain he had felt in a long time.

He raced toward the same ledge that Calvin climbed out of, deciding to make that his escape as well.

On the side of the building was pipe. He slid down it. The rust and friction etched away his gloves but his hands felt no ache. At the bottom, he landed in the middle of an alley. He took off—not bothering to see if Bruce was still chasing after him. He was heading toward a tall, boarded-up fence, which he easily climbed over. But once he hopped off on the other side, he slowed to a stop when a shadowed figure stood in the middle of the alleyway.

Dick knew who it was, even with the hood covering his face. But when the figure came closer, stepping into the glare from the flickering sconce above them, Dick noticed something that did surprise him.

A symbol emblazoned on a vest.

The sword slid from its sheathe with a sound. Dick let Damian come at him—once the sword was swung, he ducked underneath and moved to keep running. Just as quick, Damian managed to grab ahold of the back of his harness, tugging him back. Dick maneuvered himself out of Damian’s hold—and Damian grunted as he was pushed into the nearest brick wall.

Dick instinctively moved forward, dagger still in hand. He pushed his forearm against Damian’s throat, pinning him in place. He was poised to attack—but stopped short, the tip of the dagger touching Damian’s chest but not pressing.

Dick stared at where his dagger pointed. He used the dagger to push the edge of Damian’s cape out of the way, gazing at the bat symbol.

He heard Damian, the subtle intake of breath. He glanced up at him, their gazes locking.

“It looks good on you,” Dick murmured.

Damian’s brows furrowed slightly. He seemed out of breath, even though they had barely fought. _Right_ , Dick thought, remembering. _That’s_ what it felt like to be anxious.

“Stop _killing_ —”Damian said, his voice breaking at the end.

Dick must have been imagining things. But somewhere in his chest, buried in the electrum, he felt something twist.

There was a sound. Dick tilted his head, listening for it again. It had to have been Batman. Dick glanced once more at Damian, wondering for a moment, but then pulled away.

He couldn’t afford to get caught. He hurried for the nearest firescape, scaling it quickly to the top, where he could take the rooftops and run for it.

He didn’t know if anyone was chasing after him. He didn’t think about it. He hopped from rooftop to rooftop, his hair brushing past his face with every leap. He kept his gaze on his path, never looking backwards. He vowed to himself that he’d keep going until he escaped—no matter how long it took. No matter who was on his trail.

The moon, half shadowed and half illuminated, was still hanging high in the sky.

The night wasn’t over.

There was still time.

 

**Author's Note:**

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